


We Find Ourselves

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Family Bonding, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Hank Summers Doesn't Suck, Road Trips, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank Summers is dealing with a dateable teenager daughter and the added stress of a zombie apocalypse. Hopefully he survives. Both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hell in a handbasket

Title: hell in a handbasket  
Word Count: 1022  
Prompt: #339 – head games  
Rating: FR10  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended. 

Synopsis: The images on the television, despite Hank’s best attempts to rationalize them, implied that the supernatural was very real and he and Joyce had locked their baby girl up for telling them the truth.

+

Hank Summers stared at the television, transfixed by the sight of the dead rising to devour the living. His complimentary cup of coffee forgotten and cooling in his hand as he watched the news coverage of the wide spread pandemic that had, just days before, been miles, states away from him and his daughter. A pandemic that had been, apparently, quietly eroding parts of the country as he, and everyone else, sat idly by completely unaware of what was really going on in the world, in their backyards. 

His hand clenched, lukewarm coffee spilling across his fingers as the styrofoam cup crumbled beneath his tightening grip and he came slowly to the realization that not everyone was as unaware as the populace, not entirely. The images on the television, despite his best attempts to rationalize them, implied that the supernatural—vampires—were possibly very real and he and Joyce had locked their baby girl up for telling them the truth. His daughter had told him, them what really went on in dark of night and now that world, that terrifying world his daughter knew, was spilling out into the light of day.

The granola bar he’d eaten earlier in the morning solidified in his stomach and he could feel the heavy weight of it as he continued to stare at the television. A woman with large eyes and perfectly coiffed hair, hair Joyce had spent a near fortune attempting to emulate back when they’d first been married, continued to drone on, but it was the images in the background that drew Hank’s focus. The dead things, which had once been people, were being dragged into the streets of Atlanta to be disposed of by the National Guard.

Atlanta.

It was only hours away by car from Kissimmee in Florida. The destination of the month long road trip that Hank had taken with Buffy, a destination they’d reach just days before and they’d spent almost every hour since in the numerous theme parks surrounding this area of the country. He’d wanted to take his daughter on one last trip before she became too old and unwilling to hang out with her dad. Hank knew that the time when Buffy had found him relevant had, more than likely, passed and it had nearly been proven by their lack of interaction—at first.

She’d been quiet and withdrawn at the beginning, but gradually she’d opened up. First with complaints and sarcastic quips that did more to set Hank’s teeth on edge than bring them closer, but half way through Texas she began to ask questions rather than make snide comments. Buffy showed interest in the world outside the windows of the SUV and inquired about how to make the campfires they shared s’mores beside almost every night. Hank was certain, at first, his daughter had been humoring him, but by the third week, and Louisiana, she was learning how to fish and telling him about her newest best friends, Willow and Xander. 

Who, by her account, seemed to be far better friends, and a better influence, than her Hemery clique—the nicest word Hank could think of to describe the group of teenagers his daughter use to keep as company. Teenagers that had turned on his daughter at her hearing and their testimonies had played into the reasoning he and Joyce had used when putting their little girl in a mental institution. 

It had been the best hospital his health insurance and he and Joyce’s savings could afford and he’d thought she’d come out of it cured but, apparently, she’d simply come out of it a better liar. A lie she’d been perpetrating for the last year and a half because her parents hadn’t had enough faith in her. Regardless of how very strange and terrible the truth had been, she’d spoken it and they had failed her. 

Hank rose from his place on the edge of the bed, the coffee and its cup a forgotten mess on the floor, as he made his way towards the small bathroom area of their shared hotel room. Buffy was standing in front of the sink, blonde hair piled high on her head and a brightly colored tank top showed off the tan she’d acquired during their daily fishing expeditions in Louisiana. The running water must have drowned out the sound of the television since his daughter was still brushing her teeth as the reporter explained the CDC’s newest announcement—apparently the Center for Disease Control had _finally_ decided to comment using a mouthpiece with a smooth voice to deliver shitty news.

His hand settled over a shoulder as he decided, for once, to ignore the outside word and focus solely on his daughter. Buffy met his gaze in the mirror a moment before she turned to him and his hand slipped away to fall to his side. The steady back and forth motion of her toothbrush didn’t falter as her head titled inquiringly and Hank found himself distracted by his own reflection in the oversized lenses of her sunglasses that sat atop her head. He blinked, refocused and a brow rose in question at his antics. 

Hank took a step back, the granola bar turned to lead in his stomach, as he told Buffy, his voice quiet and the words far too late, “I’m sorry,” his voice grew quieter still as he finished, “I’m so sorry, honey.” 

The brush stopped, brows lowering in obvious confusion as green eyes stared up at him and she asked, around a mouth full of frothy toothpaste, “Huh?” 

Hank didn’t explain, he couldn’t yet. 

Instead he tugged her forward into his arms and held her as tears blurred his vision. Buffy stood stiff and awkward against his chest before she gave into the hug and an absent hand rose to pat his back. He felt the toothbrush dig into his chest as she questioned, voice terribly confused, “I love you too?” 

An abrupt laugh escaped him and he pulled back, watched as Buffy wiped at the toothpaste he’d smeared across the both of them and nodded before agreeing, “I love you too.” 

+

The end.


	2. Florida Oranges

Title: Florida Oranges  
Word Count: 1620  
Prompt: #342 - foodist  
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended. 

Synopsis: Apparently, regardless of the world’s future or their place in it, some things didn’t change.

+

Sunlight speared through the clouds and brought the rain covered highway to glistening life. Hank felt the tightness in his chest ease at the sight, the first they’d caught of the sun in nearly three days, since he wasn’t entirely sure how’d they’d survive a hurricane without warning or shelter. The SUV he and his daughter had been living out of for the better part of a month worked well against the common elements, but pitting it against all the force Mother Nature could muster seemed futile. 

Humanity was barely holding on as it was after the sickness spread like wildfire across the continent, across the globe, leaving only the fittest to survive. A survival that seemed to be wrought with dangers his daughter adapted to with an ease that unnerved him one moment and saved his life the next. He’d begun to grow accustomed to his daughter’s ever vigilant stare and the way she took charge of those situations where the outcome looked most dire. She’d fit in with the mostly military group at Camp Blanding when they’d stumbled across the facility as they fled the Ocala campgrounds after it was overrun with the infected. Which his daughter had taken to referring to as deadites because of some movie she’d watched with her friends the weekend before she’d come to Los Angeles.

She’d joined them in weapons training long before convincing him to do the same. Buffy now ensured he was armed at all times with the Mossberg the leader of the military brigade had offered to them on their way out—a polite way to refer to fleeing for their lives. It was currently resting against the windshield of the SUV as they sat atop the hood and enjoyed a moment’s quiet. His daughter had removed her boots, the ones she’d convinced him to buy for her before the world went to hell while in New Orleans, and the thick leather had suited her well in the last few weeks on the road. 

Her legs were stretched out in front of her as she leaned against the windshield and bared her face to the sunlight and Hank wasn’t fooled by the fact that she’d placed herself within easy reach of the Mossberg. Her own gun, a Glock that was small, black and looked vaguely plastic like, was in her lap, but the recurve bow and it’s arrows were tucked away between the front seats of the SUV. While she preferred the bow to the dinner bell—her words to describe the Glock, not his own—the gun offered a quicker reaction time when they were out in the open. 

That gun was just one of many instances where his misspent youth had come in handy as of late. A youth in which the Jimmy Pry Bar he’d used to break into the police car, that had housed the Glock before it became his daughter’s, had been a staple of his car’s trunk. When Buffy had inquired about his aptitude with the Jimmy he’d merely smiled and informed her he’d tell her about it when she was older. Apparently, regardless of the world’s future or their place in it, some things didn’t change Hank mused as he watched her eat. 

The oranges Buffy had commandeered from the field to their right sat bundled between them on her jacket. She’d rolled the leather into a basket shape and nestled the fruit in the center to keep them from sliding off the hood as they enjoyed their first bit of fresh sustenance in nearly a month. The last few groves they’d past had suffered from the drought that had ended last night, but this farm had a sprinkler system setup that still seemed to be in functioning order. 

Buffy had grabbed only ten oranges, as if still worried the farmer would suffer from the loss, but was currently in the process of tearing the flesh from her third. The juices dripped down onto her leggings and while Hank wasn’t entirely comfortable with his daughter in skintight attire he couldn’t find fault with her logic in wearing them. Nylon was far more difficult to grab onto than jean and since his daughter tended to kick her opponent away before dispatching of them the leggings were more of a protection and they _did_ take up less space in her suitcase. Though as Hank watched Buffy bite into another slice of orange he supposed, at least to himself, what his daughter did to the infected was less of a dispatching and more of a slaughter. 

She’d explained what a Vampire Slayer was and how it worked and Hank had raged at the thought of his little girl being sent to her possible death each night. His first conversation with Rupert Giles had ended up as a rather intense debate with neither side willing to back down and there was still a part of him that wished it’d been in person so he could strangle the son of a bitch—regardless of his role, or lack thereof, in his daughter being chosen. He hadn’t, and still didn’t, give a damn about destiny. He did however give a damn about his daughter and the fact that she’d wept after her portion of the conversation with Rupert. 

He’d held her in his arms after she’d learned of the death of her two newest friends and the disappearance of someone with the terrible nickname of Angel. Their communication with Sunnydale and Joyce had been spotty, at best, but in recent days Hank had been struggling to find ways to keep them connected with his ex-wife and his daughter’s Watcher after the cell towers died. Their last conversation had been an assurance that Rupert would remain in the Summers’ household and help fortify it against the infected. Joyce had told him that they’d torn down the stairs and were using a ladder to get to the second floor. They pulled it up with them each night in case the infected made it past a barricaded door or window. 

Hank had to admit that had been a clever idea on Rupert’s part, but he also knew how very angry Joyce still was with the man and wasn’t in the mood to be impressed or coddled. He was also certain he’d heard a smack when he’d told Joyce the truth about their daughter and her calling. Since Rupert had been present for that conversation it gave Hank some sense of satisfaction that he’d suffered the blow—though he might still wish it’d been him to deliver it, but with a closed fist. 

“Dad?”

His daughter’s hesitant voice drew him out of his internal musings and he accepted her offer of an orange wedge with a tired smile and a, “Thank you.” 

Her brows were drawn low and she was studying him with the same intensity she usually reserved for the area they were most likely to spend the night in. “You went all cease-fire on the verbal.” 

“Lost in thought,” was his explanation, even as he smiled at her words and Buffy’s unique take on the English language that was now peppered with random military verbiage. Something he was certain she’d inherited from Joyce and as he eyed the white eyelet dress she wore over her very dark leggings he supposed she got her urge to fashionable in the face of adversary from Joyce as well. Since his ex-wife had always dressed up for her tests in college—granted the world today was far more extreme than exams—but he found the concept similar and highly endearing. 

“I can see that.” Her tone of voice implied the ‘duh’ and Hank merely held out his hand for another piece of orange. She complied and continued with, “I just wish you wouldn’t do it so often.” 

“You’re not overly fond of the quiet moments,” Hank observed. 

“Not hardly,” she scoffed and sank her teeth into another piece of orange. Buffy chewed for a moment and then sighed before directing her gaze towards the road ahead of them. “I don’t mind quiet, but it’s the moments where I know you’re thinking thoughts that are better remained un-thunk.” She frowned, head cocking before she glanced up at him and corrected herself, “Not thunk?” 

“Not thunk,” he agreed and snagged another slice of orange. Instead of allowing themselves to fall back into the silence his daughter seemed so adverse to Hank offered, “I’m also thinking tomorrow we should go in search of gas.” 

Buffy’s head lifted, her shoulders rolling back as she glanced behind them to towards the trunk and the several full canisters still present there before she shrugged. “As good a plan as any. I doubt we’d make it to California with that supply.”

“And you’d be right.” Hank ignored the nagging voice telling him they’d never make it that far regardless and instead offered, “Maybe we can find a working landline too.” 

She perked up at the mention of a phone and where those possibilities led. “How do you think mom’s doing?”

“Driving Rupert up the wall I’d imagine.” He smiled, “Your mother was never one for being cooped up.” 

“Do tell.” 

Buffy inquired as she sat forward, legs coming up to cross beneath her as she gave him her full attention and Hank switched his train of thought to what he’d been doing best the last few weeks. Keeping his daughter entertained with stories of his college and newlywed days with Joyce and while he did it mostly for Buffy; there was always a sense of normalcy that slid over them when he explained the ins and outs of living with an artistic personality. 

“Well, you see. The first time I took your mother camping…” 

+

The end.


	3. one for sorrow

Title: one for sorrow  
Word Count: 3100  
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Walking Dead  
Prompt: #344 – murder  
Warning: violence, death  
Rating: FR15  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

 

Synopsis: Buffy had seen enough of death in the last few weeks that it had made her hyperaware of her own, and her dad’s, finite existence, but terribly desensitized to others.

+

The wide expanse of sky through the windshield was still full of dark blues and grays, but dawn was casting a pale shadow in the side mirror of the SUV as the sun made its way higher. Buffy Summers propped her elbow on the armrest as the wind whipped its way through the open window and brought with it the faint stench of burning. Her nose wrinkled at the scent and the memories it invoked; memories of the military’s first combative strike against the _deadites_ that involved napalm and large cities and the utter lack of help it had been. 

It had happened suddenly, and without a warning of any kind, one minute Orlando had been behind them and the next the city was aflame and those that had bunkered down to wait out the surge of the undead hadn’t been given a second thought or chance. She shifted, her arm falling away from the window and the sudden sensation of cold, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was physical, as she dragged herself from serious thoughts and focused on her dad. He was facing forward, gaze intent on the road and his right hand was fiddling with the radio as he searched station after station of static in the hope of them receiving an updated from, well, anyone really. 

Religious zealots were sometimes on the AM stations ranting about the end of days, and maybe it was, but no one in their right mind wanted to be reminded of that. Though her dad was the persistent sort; hence the fruitless daily ritual and that persistence was also why he was in the know about all of her tales of woe that involved the Slayer aspects of her life. With patience and soft inquiries he’d broken down each wall she’d set in place to protect her family and friends which left her vulnerable, but not unsupported, and him close to tears when things were all said and done. 

Sharing what had happened to her at the hands of the Master, sharing that great weight with her dad, had been good for her—the circumstances that had brought on that over-share had, however, not been so great for the world. A world, or at the very least North America, that had become overrun with the _deadites_ in a little over two months and her dad, like most others they encountered, referred to them simply as infected, but that implied they could be cured. 

Buffy was pretty certain you couldn’t cure dead and they were dead. Very dead. 

She’d found it best to separate them, and herself, from who they used to be. It made slaying them easier when she didn’t dwell since dwelling led to hesitation and hesitation in the here and now led to death and she had no intention of dying again anytime soon. She’d seen enough of it in the last few weeks that it had made her hyperaware of her own, and her dad’s, finite existence, but terribly desensitized to others.

Static gave way to piano and the sudden normalcy of it, that wasn’t so normal nowadays, had her stiffening and turning a narrowed stare on the radio as her dad’s hand fell away. The digital numbers verified that it was an AM station, but the person on the other end wasn’t using their broadcast power to annoy and intimidate and that brought a small twitch to her lips. 

Hank sighed and she turned her gaze from the radio to him and his smile was far more pronounced than her own. Blue eyes left the road briefly to offer her a wink and that smile spread into a grin as he explained, “Chopin.” 

“And this is good?” She asked and found her own smile stretching with his enthusiasm. 

“Very.” At his response Buffy leaned forward and turned up the dial so that the rhythmic sound of the piano filled the SUV and Hank nodded his thanks before stating, “Much better than static, don’t you think?” 

“Anything is better than static,” Buffy agreed before shrugging, “Though this doesn’t suck.” 

“Doesn’t suck?” The humor and exasperation in his words brought forth a grin to mirror her dad’s and he shook his head. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“I think I’m very corrigible,” His smile stretched even wider and Buffy frowned at her own choice in words, “That is a word right? Corrigible?” 

A silent laugh shook his shoulders before he conceded, “It is,” but before she could counter about her rightness Hank finished with, “But you’re not. Corrigible, that is.” 

Sensing more than understanding his mockery she snarked, “Someone thinks they’re funny.” 

“I think I’m hilarious,” her dad confirmed and then offered, voice somehow conversational and bland, “And I suppose by default, since you are my daughter and all, you might be as well.” 

“So good of you to notice.”

Her dry response got another laugh before they fell into comfortable silence and the almost soothing sound of the music settled over them as Buffy turned her attention to the world outside the SUV. The rain had well and truly come to Florida, bringing with it mosquitos and a humidity that made the air thick and nearly tangible. The early morning drizzle that had woken them and dragged them onto the road before sunrise had broken up the heavy feel to the air, at least for a short while, and made it almost cool. The sky was mostly gray and purple now, but the scent of smoke was thicker and Buffy inclined her head and cast her gaze towards her open window. 

Brown and dying grass, the rain hadn’t come soon enough, spread out on either side of the road and being as far north as they were in Florida meant hills surrounded them. They were nothing compared to the mountains in northern California, but they did obscure one’s line of sight something fierce and since interstate roads were congested with both _deadites_ and abandoned vehicles they’d mostly taken the country roads that ran alongside most highways and the SUV allowed for crossing rougher terrain if needed, not that she knew from personal experience. Her dad still wasn’t letting her near the steering wheel, regardless of the lack of (living) people or police on the roads. 

The scent of fire grew sharper as the SUV reached the top of the next hill and Buffy looked out, into the shallow valley between this one and the next and she stiffened. “Dad!”

Her voice brought the SUV to a halt and Buffy frowned at the camp set back from the road and the swarm of _deadites_ that had surrounded it. Her dad had taken to calling this many of them in one place a murder; it was the word for a flock of crows, or something, and while they weren’t bird like in the least Buffy had to agree that the label was fitting and she’d wished she’d thought of it first. 

A scream tightened the space between her shoulders as Buffy leaned forward to snatch her boots from their spot on the floor mat and tugged them up and onto her sock-covered feet. She straightened and pulled at the tab that made her window slide up before stating, as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing, “We have to help them.” 

“I thought you might say that,” Hank replied as his window followed suit and he turned off the car, but left the keys dangling in the ignition. 

He turned, upper body reaching into the backseat and pulled forward the Gerber Gear they’d raided from an abandon pawn shop outside of High Springs. He pulled out the hatchet that was weighted at the base and laid it across his lap before offering her the satchel. Buffy shook her head, bypassing her bow and arrow set that sat between them for the crowbar that had been beside her boots, it was an obnoxious green and the perfect close quarters weapon. 

She took a moment to gaze at her dad before stating, voice terribly sincere even though her words lacked any and all flare, “Don’t die.” 

“Right back at’cha, kid.” 

Her chin dipped and her shoulder hit the door the same time her hand compressed the latch. Buffy was spilled into the early morning air and onto the dead grass. She took the extra moment to slam the car door closed behind her, unwilling to leave an opening for the _deadites_ to ambush them later, before heading further from the road and leaving her dad trailing behind her. The grass was high, overlapping her boots and snagging on her leggings—they’d have to check for ticks after this melee—and as she drew closer she could a woman climbing onto the hood of an ambulance while a man with a shovel watched her six.

Buffy scanned the immediate area surrounding them and just slightly beyond that. Taking note that she had visual on at least ten _deadites_ , but suspected there were more behind the small camp the group had arranged. They’d done a decent job of fortifying it, but apparently not decent enough. The three cars, an ambulance, truck and sedan, were parked in a ‘circling the wagons’ formation with metal fencing wedged between the vehicles to prevent the undead from getting into the inner-circle the cars created. Unless, well, they slid underneath the cars, but since _deadites_ weren’t known for their reasoning skills it was a good set up, but the fire raging in the center was what had probably drawn the murder. 

The passenger side door of the sedan swung open and three gunshots, rapid fire and deafening, cut across the valley and Buffy flinched, body tucking low in the high grass. She spared a glance behind her and saw her dad, ten yards back and also ducking. She caught his eye and jerked her head towards the right, pointing her crowbar to a smaller straggling group of _deadites_ coming up on the group. They were slow and missing limbs and she wouldn’t have to worry as much, just heart clenching instead of breath stopping, with her dad taking on those. 

She watched, eyes narrowed and focused, as he separated from the path she led and went the long way around the camp before turning back to the carnage at hand. The _deadite_ closest to the sedan faltered under the onslaught of bullets, but they were wasted on the body as a woman climbed free of the car and shot twice more. It crumbled as one took out a knee, but another took its place and the woman screamed as it tore into her forearm. 

The gun fell as her hand spasmed and she continued to struggle, trying to break free of the _deadite’s_ teeth. Buffy swore under her breath and picked up speed as the one now on the ground dragged itself forward, toward the wounded woman. Buffy ducked to the right, her crowbar brought up and across the back of a small head; the skull gave under the blow and the _deadite_ nearest to her stumbled, falling to the ground unmoving. She struggled for apathy and tried to ignore the fact that it had once been a boy of about seven and moved on.

The next _deadite_ , an older woman with half her face torn away, lunged towards her and she shoved the crowbar forward, business end first and directly into the gaping hole that had once held her eye. Those reaching arms fell away and Buffy brought her boot heel up and directly into its chest, shoving it off and away. The body struck the ground with a meaty thud and Buffy leapt over it as another, more skillful, gunshot took out the _deadite_ she’d been heading for next.

Buffy looked up, saw the woman and man that had been scrambling onto the ambulance had made it and the woman was pointing the rifle towards the last few _deadites_ reaching for them from their place alongside the vehicle. Entrusting them, a hard thing that, to finish them off Buffy headed towards the sedan and the now dead woman being devoured by the two _deadites_. She frowned when she approached the car and heard whimpering, her gaze was drawn to the back window and green eyes widened at the sight of a little girl staring back at her from a car seat. 

Her tear streaked face gave Buffy some inkling why the woman had panicked when fighting back since most survivors nowadays had better heads on their shoulders, but she’d seen a lot of mothers do a lot of crazy, and terrible, things to save their children. She dispatched the two eating away at the mother’s innards and gazed down at the woman’s blood specked face before striking once, quick and violent, against her temple to ensure she didn’t rise as two more shots were fired and Buffy assumed the ambulance crew was safe as she moved on. 

She came up along where the hoods of the sedan and truck were nearly touching and the fencing between them was bent to fit around and behind the hood of the sedan. Three _deadites_ were at the truck’s bed struggling to climb over it when they didn’t seem entirely sure of how to climb. Another gunshot spun one of them away from the truck, but it had taken it in the shoulder and thus was just slowed by the wound and not stopped. Buffy moved past the truck, further into the field since the woman with the rifle seemed competent, if not entirely accurate, and took out two more _deadites_ further from the camp before heading back to finish the wounded one. 

It reached its working arm up, fingers grasping at her boots and she swung the crowbar down. It struck the skull with enough force that the neck snapped and the hand smearing her boot with blood tightened before it slipped away. Buffy bypassed the two _deadites_ with big holes in their skulls and made her way around the truck to the remaining three shoving their arms through the fencing. These ones were still able to make noises and their hungry grunts raised the hair along the back of her neck and the one furthest from her crumbled with the next shot of the rifle. 

Buffy went behind the closest _deadite_ and heft the crowbar, business end out, and shoved it upward. It pierced the base of the skull and she felt it scrap against the top before she yanked it out and thick, noxious scented blood and thicker fluids came out with it. The urge to heave was ignored as the other turned on her and she kicked out, knocking it back against the fence and giving herself enough time to bring the crowbar back up and strike along the temple. It wavered and the blow grazed forward, over its face and the once pretty features were ruined as the cheekbone fell beneath the heavy metal. 

She stumbled back and away from the _deadite_ as its eye slipped out from its place in the socket to dangle from veiny tissue. It swayed a moment before it fell to its knees and then forward to land facedown at her feet. Buffy’s mouth watered and she swallowed it and the bile burning the back of her throat as she turned away from the _deadite_ —that had once been a teenage girl about her own age. 

Green eyes narrowed as they looked past the carnage around her to the valley and hills, searching for danger until they settled on her dad. Some of the tightness in her chest eased as she watched him yank his hatchet from the skull of a _deadite_ that looked to be missing both legs and had been sneaking its way towards the camp in the tall grass. Her dad had the eyes of a hawk sometimes and he’d had them before the world slipped into madness since he’d always known when she’d been out slaying, rather than in bed back in Los Angeles. 

He caught her eye and smiled and Buffy turned back to the camp, or what was left of it, as the man slid down the front of the ambulance and ran to the sedan. He pulled the still quietly crying little girl from the backseat and hugged her tightly to his chest, murmuring comforting words against the crown of her head. Buffy had to assume they were comforting since those words were lost to the roaring of the fire and the slight ringing she had in her ears from the gunshot blasts. Her dad made his way towards her, his gaze now sweeping the immediate area as the woman made her way to the back of the ambulance and then used the lights on the back as hand and foot holds, as if she’d done it many a time before, to climb down. 

A rifle was strapped across her chest and there was a box of bullets putting a bulge in the pocket of her jacket as she made her way forward and offered Buffy a hand. Glancing down at the crowbar still tightly clenched in her hands and the blood covering both she flinched before releasing her right and glancing down at the shirt she wore that was still relatively clean. 

The hand reached out and caught hers, uncaring of the blood, and Buffy met a pair of brown eyes as they gathered at the corners. “Thank you,” the hand tightened and Buffy noticed the calluses as tears began to gather in those eyes, “Thank you.” 

Her hand was dropped and the woman treated her dad to the same greeting before visibly pulling herself together and looking back and forth between them before stating, “I’m Sarah.” She turned, looking over her shoulder and Buffy followed her gaze to the man slowly making his way towards the fence that had the three very dead _deadites_ heaped in front of it. “That’s Grayson and his niece Emma. His sister…” she trailed off and rolled her lips together as the tears made a reappearance. 

Her dad stepped forward, drew her focus away from the one they’d just lost, at least for a short while, by introducing them, “I’m Hank and this,” his hand settled over her shoulder, squeezed just a little, but his voice filled with something close to pride as he finished with, “This is my daughter. Buffy.” 

Buffy felt her own stirring of pride when her dad continued. His next words were the simplest question, but meant so much in this new world, “Need some help?” 

+

The end.


	4. the parting glass

Title: the parting glass  
Word Count: 1700  
Prompt: #347 – sister  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: He’d seen her use that crowbar with an accuracy that bordered on frightening, well, frightening if it had been another time, another place, but in the here and now Grayson found it comforting.

+

Flames licked the sky and brought with them the scent of sulfur as another biter was added to the pyre and the fire his sister had failed to bank last night grew brighter as morning slipped into afternoon and body after body was burned to bone and ash. Rebecca had never been fond of the dark, a childhood fear that had followed her well into adulthood and when civilization crumbled so had her courage. That fear had crippled her when the sun set and forced Grayson to build a fire each night to placate his sister, but after the loss of Peter, her husband, the fear sharpened into something very near a phobia and left her unable to function at times.

The flames reached what was left of the biter’s fatty tissue and the scent that reminded him, unpleasantly, of burnt bacon grease tightened his stomach and the little he’d eaten, forced on him by Sarah, turned acidic. Blue eyes closed and he quelled the nausea with a few shallow breaths through his mouth and then he exhaled slowly. Grayson lifted his left hand and scratched absently at the back of his head before his eyes opened to take in the sight of the grave at his feet. The small hand wrapped within his right wiggled reminding him of the presence of his niece. Emma stood beside him, silent and staring at the marker that carried his sister’s name and the date of her birth and, his best guess at, the date of her death. 

The sight of the letters and numbers written in his hasty scrawl left him dissatisfied and hollow, but he pushed past his own failings and came to a knee so that he was at eyelevel with the four year old. Emma continued to stare at the marker made from a hunk of asphalt and he wasn’t entirely sure how the petite teenager, whose name eluded him, had scavenged it for them. He’d also been unable to turn aside the teenager’s offer for help and she’d dug most of the grave while he attempted to explain everything to Emma. She’d shrugged off his thanks without really accepting it and helped him bury his sister before excusing herself and leaving them to their mourning. 

Grayson drew Emma’s attention by asking, “What else should it say?” 

Blue eyes—just like his own, just like Rebecca’s—blinked owlishly at him before she frowned and inquired, “What it say now?” 

“Rebecca Duncan,” He motioned to the dates, “That’s her birthday and that’s today.” 

“Oh.” Her head inclined, the ponytail Rebecca had pulled her blonde hair into before bedtime the previous night was now a snarled mess, but Grayson hadn’t felt the need to force a brush on Emma just yet. “Momma liked elephants,” she looked back to him, “can we put that?” 

His mouth curved inward and the movement felt foreign until he realized that he was smiling and Grayson’s hand tightened around Emma’s before he nodded. “We can,” and set about doing exactly as she’d asked.

The fire grew hotter at his back as he allowed Emma to direct the Sharpie he’d located in the glove box of his ambulance. They added a list of his sister’s likes to the makeshift tombstone until it didn’t look so bare and Grayson didn’t feel so hollow. Emma had demanded the Sharpie towards the end and was now drawing, the best she could, a ladybug next to Rebecca’s name and Grayson stood; giving her some space and himself a chance to stretch after being crouched over for so long. 

He scanned the immediate area, suddenly aware of the fact that he’d allowed himself to be distracted for far longer than a moment and, he’d learned, even a moment’s distraction could get someone killed. He found Sarah Miller, the owner of the truck and an honorable discharge from the United States Air Force, and the man that had helped save them hefting what looked to be the last body into the fire. They were lost to their task and in the same position as himself and he looked past them to find the man’s daughter, her name might be Bunny, standing on the roof of his ambulance with a bow in her hand and quiver of arrows on her back. 

She stood tall, for such a petite frame, with her shoulders rolled back and gaze sweeping the valley they occupied with a precision he’d only seen Sarah use and he found it comforting to know someone had their backs while they regrouped. Though, he supposed, it was a bit odd that it was the teenager guarding them instead of an adult, but he’d seen her use that crowbar with an accuracy that bordered on frightening, well, frightening if it had been another time, another place, but in the here and now Grayson found it comforting. 

Sunlight glinted off the sunglasses she wore and her hair had been pulled back into a messy bun that somehow managed to look fashionable when he’d seen her tie it into a haphazard knot himself. It was odd, and a little calming, to see a teenager still caring about their appearance and Grayson inclined his head when her gaze came to their little section of the valley. Her chin dipped in acknowledgement of him and he watched as she made her way towards the back of the ambulance. 

She paused, head swiveling once more—checking one last time for danger—before she slipped the bow over her shoulder and disappeared from Grayson’s sight. He turned, keeping an eye on the tall grass as Emma finished her drawing and came to stand beside him. The teenager appeared from behind the vehicle and Sarah and her father fell in step behind her and she led them forward. 

Sarah tugged at the bandana that covered the lower half of her face and Grayson could see the line of soot it left behind to show where the makeshift mask had been. She untied the bit of cloth and used it to wipe at her brow, smearing the grey dust and Grayson found another smile threatening, but it was Emma’s quiet giggles, she was quiet in all things now, that allowed the smile to spill across his face. 

He bent, capturing Emma in his arms and brought her up to rest on his hip, her head quickly found a place on his shoulder as he focused on their saviors for the first time. His smile fell as the moment of levity slipped away and he nodded to the older man before offering him his right hand, the left holding Emma up effortlessly. “Grayson Lewis.” 

Blue eyes, darker than his or Emma’s, gathered at the corners and the man accepted the shake with his ash and grime covered hand. “Hank Summers.” He turned, pulling Grayson slightly forward and to the left so that he faced his daughter and Hank corrected his assumption of Bunny with, “And this is Buffy.” 

His hand was dropped and was then accepted by a much smaller, but slightly more callused hand. Grayson felt a frown tugging at his brow with oddity of that, but he forced a wan smile and offered, “Glad to meet you.” 

“Are you a Power Ranger?”

Grayson found his hand dropped and Buffy lifted her sunglasses up, pushing back the bangs that had settled across her forehead as she smiled at Emma and her question. “Alas no. Spandex and I are unmixy things,” the teenager admitted, but then added with a wink, “But I am rather fond of the color yellow so it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibilty.” 

“Yellow is my _fav-r-it_!” The last word was spaced out, Emma only hitting the main consonants, but her meaning came across just fine so Grayson suppressed the urge to correct her. 

“Mine too,” Buffy agreed and her smile stretched wider. 

Sarah gave up getting her face clean without the aid of a mirror and glanced around the valley before joining the idle chitchat with more pressing concerns. Grayson had learned in the few weeks he’d know her that she seemed to, at times, lack most social graces and tact, but Sarah more than made up for those shortcomings with her ability to keep a level head in a crisis. “I was telling Hank about our plans to head to Jacksonville.”

“What’s in Jacksonville?” Buffy inquired, setting her sunglasses back in place. 

“Blount Island Command.” Sarah looked from face to face before continuing, “The Florida CDC has set up shop at their base and I’m hoping they’ll have some answers.” 

“They moved to a military base?” 

She nodded with Hank’s questions as if she agreed with it before stating, “They don’t have a Biosafety Level 4 laboratory, like Atlanta, but some of my buddies were being stationed there since it’s one of the few places left in the country still working towards a cure.” 

“While I’m sure a cure is on all our minds,” Hank offered, “we’re heading towards California and Jacksonville is in the exact opposite direction.”

“You think you’ll make it that far?” Sarah countered. 

“My mom is in California.” The teenager retorted. 

“My question still stands.” 

“Sarah!” Grayson admonished the brunette. 

“What?” She frowned at him before she sighed and admitted, “We’d make it farther with you than without you.”

Emma squirmed in his arms and Grayson turned, looked behind them and searched the tall grass for possible threats. Hank excused himself and motioned Buffy to follow his lead and they moved back towards the fire to start up a whispered exchange that had the both of them gesturing mildly at one another. 

Sarah stepped closer to him and offered a weak smile. “Think they’ll agree?”

“After that stellar argument you offered?”

Her mouth tightened and she sighed, “I suck with people.” 

“Not all people,” Grayson offered before smirking, “Just most.” 

A snort escaped Sarah and she stiffened, turning around to face the Hank and Buffy as they rejoined them and it was Buffy that offered, “We’re in.” She raised a hand, palm out as she cautioned, “We’ll get you there and then be on our merry way.” 

“That’s all we ask.” 

+

The end.


	5. lead me home

Title: lead me home  
Word Count: 4420  
Prompt: #348 – papaya   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: She met his gaze and Grayson found Buffy’s to be oddly measuring.

+

A road trip that would have taken have a day previously was now heading well into its second and while, intellectually, Grayson knew why the SUV ahead of him was once again pulling into what appeared to be an abandoned gas station’s parking lot he still found it irksome. He pulled the truck over, Emma still fast asleep behind him and watched in the review as Sarah followed his lead and pulled the ambulance in behind him. He’d taken to driving Sarah’s truck since its cab housed a backseat that could fit Emma’s car-seat. They’d left Rebecca’s sedan behind after stripping it of any usable parts since it’d been the only vehicle that ran on gasoline which was harder to come by than diesel. 

Grayson watched as Buffy pulled herself free of the vehicle before climbing onto the hood and then the roof. She moved in a slow circle, gaze intent on the area surrounding them, before she gave her version of an all clear signal that included a swirling of her right fist before she leapt to the ground mindless of the fact that it was a good ten feet below her. She landed gracefully, knees bent and arms slightly out to aid her balance and Grayson shook his head before turning to check on Emma. 

Her head was lulled to the side, lips parted and he could hear her heavy breathing—he’d have called it snoring on an adult—as she slept her way through her afternoon nap. The braided pigtails that Buffy had pulled her hair into that morning were still holding strong and looked far better than the ponytail he’d attempted. Grayson turned off the truck and opened the driver’s door as Sarah came up alongside the truck bed. 

She peaked in and smiled at his sleeping niece before turning back to him. “Think they’ll find anything of use this time?” 

Their last two stops had been fruitless, but Grayson had seen their supplies in the backseat and knew they’d had better luck before so he offered Sarah a shrug before closing the door. While it was warm, it wasn’t nearly hot enough for him to consider cracking a window for Emma, not when there wasn’t a way to know where the biters were lurking. He stayed beside the truck and pulled the shotgun free of the leg holster that had once been Peter’s, his brother-in-law, and held it easily in his hands as Hank made his way towards them with Buffy only a few steps behind. 

The older man was searching the tall grass, but not as thoroughly as his daughter, as he stopped at the hood of the truck and stated, “Would either of you mind going with Buffy? I’ve a mind to check the vehicle’s oil before we start out again.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Sarah readily agreed, “I’ve done some work on my own truck, but if you don’t mind me watching over your shoulder I’d like to see you do the others.” Grayson felt his brows tug together with her statement and he glanced once more at Emma, but before he could comment Sarah offered, “I’ll keep an eye on her. You know I will.” 

He nodded, since he did, and he looked back to Hank and then Buffy before stating, “I haven’t done much scavenging.” 

“We know,” Buffy smiled up at him, “That’s the real reason my dad wants to look over the cars.” 

“Buffy—”

“Please,” she scoffed interrupting Hank, “It’s not like you were even a bit subtle.” 

He glanced over and caught the amused quirk to Sarah’s mouth before a hand rose to scratch at the back of his head. Nails raking against a scalp that didn’t itch before that hand dropped to the butt of his shotgun and he looked to Buffy and raised his brows. “Alright.” 

Her smile softened and a hand rose to push her sunglasses up so that he could see her eyes as she looked up at him and Grayson was suddenly very aware of the fact that he had nearly half a foot on the petite teenager. “Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I’ll keep you safe.” 

“Kid,” Hank cautioned, “Don’t patronize the person that’ll be watching your back.”

Grayson watched Buffy turn, meet her dad’s gaze and there was a silent communication before a shrug lifted her shoulder and she glanced back at him. “Walk around first?” She looked down and frowned at his shotgun. “Is that all you have weapon wise?” 

“It’s all I’ve needed.” 

He assured her and her frown deepened, but it was Sarah that offered, “He’s good with a shovel.” 

Grayson glanced back at her and frowned as Buffy countered, “A shovel makes less noise, but it’s not so great for close quarters.” He redirected his attention to the teenager as she asked, “How are you with a parang?”

“Parang?” Grayson questioned.

“Think machete,” Buffy supplied and motioned him to follow as she made her way back towards their SUV while explaining, “We’ve got a Gerber Gear set. My dad’s partial to the axe and there’s an actual machete, but for downward swings a parang’s gonna do more damage.” 

He fell in step beside her, easily catching up to her shorter stride as Grayson took off his own sunglasses and tucked them into the top button of his shirt. The sun was already making the tank top he wore beneath it slightly uncomfortable, but he kept the extra layer in place just in case there were biters present. Buffy reached the backdoor on the passenger’s side and opened it, Grayson stopping a few feet behind her and he looked away from the sight of her bending at the waist to reach across the seat as her top rode up. 

The leggings she wore hugged certain parts of her anatomy that would probably lead to Hank using that Gerber axe on him if he caught Grayson admiring his daughter’s backside. A backside that would be worth look or two if it belonged to someone older, but it didn’t and Grayson liked his head firmly attached. He caught Sarah smirking at him from across the way and he frowned in her general direction before the sound a zipper releasing drew his attention back to the SUV and Buffy. 

Who had, thankfully, straightened from her bent over position and Grayson stepped forward, placing himself beside her as she flipped open the nylon bag and presented him with an array of weaponry that he found oddly encouraging. Buffy shifted, placing her back against the opened door before looking up at him and she put her hand in the only open space in the set. “Looks like Dad already stole the axe.” She pulled out two deadly and similar looking long-edged blades and explained, “Machete and parang,” her hands moved in time with the blade’s titles, showing him the difference before she placed them on top. 

“And you recommend the parang?” 

He looked over the more curved blade with a wider tip as Buffy nodded and a shoulder lifted beneath the loose-knit top she wore over her leggings. “Why not give it a few test swings?”

Grayson picked up the parang and found it surprisingly light for such a long weapon and he stepped back, away from Buffy and the SUV. The first few swings were hesitant, but after a few more the tightness in his shoulders let up and he felt competent enough to attempt a downward stroke that felt strong enough to cleave a skull. His mouth tightened with the thought and he paused, arm falling to his side before looking back to Buffy and her careful perusal of him. 

She met his gaze and he found hers to be oddly measuring before she inclined her head. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be?” His reply came out as more of a question than a declaration, as he’d intended, and that soft smile of hers was back. 

She stepped forward, elbow catching the door’s edge and she used it to push the door closed before making her way towards him. The strap of a shoulder bag now cut across her chest and Grayson assumed the bag was settled against her back as her hands went to work freeing the crowbar, which seemed to never leave her side, from the shoulder holster she wore. Sarah had helped her the groups’ first night together adjust the holster, that had once belonged to a man, so that it fit Buffy’s far more petite frame and she’d worn it ever since. One side held her Glock and the other looked suspiciously like a spangled-scrunchie had been wedged inside to keep the crowbar at ready. 

“Walk around first?” She questioned even as she started off past him towards the gas station. 

He fell in step behind her and a little in her shadow, but rather than take offense Grayson attempted to learn from her. “Why are we walking around?” 

“We’re checking for open entrances.”

“That we can use?” 

“That deadites might’ve used.” 

She corrected his assumption and Grayson nodded, tightening his grip on the parang and feeling the lanyard tap at his wrist he wondered if he should have attached it, but Buffy was already several feet ahead of him and he hurried to catch up. The gas station looked as if it had already been in rundown _before_ the dead started rising and being abandoned to the elements hadn’t helped it any. The linoleum siding, made to look like wood, was just barely holding onto the sides of the building and the bars lining the windows of the establishment didn’t help the death trap ambiance any. Grayson followed Buffy’s example of peering in the windows as they made their way through the tall grass and around the building once. 

Buffy stopped at the gravel drive that lead up to the pumps and looked back at him. “Want to try the front or the back door?” 

“Don’t you usually do the back?” Grayson questioned. 

“We do,” Buffy nodded, “Mostly because the front doors are glass filled and it’s safer to use the crowbar on solid doors.” 

“Makes sense,” he agreed even though he wasn’t entirely sure it did. 

That smile was back, as if she guessed at his complacency, but she merely motioned him forward and allowed him to take lead around the building. He took the time to look in each window again and while he didn’t see anything stir that didn’t mean it was empty. Most biters didn’t react unless given stimulation and they relied on what was left of their senses to guide them. Grayson didn’t think they were making enough noise, yet, to draw the attention of a biter. 

Buffy moved in front of him when they reached the backdoor that, while rusted, it still looked as if to be in decent shape and more than able to stand up to her crowbar. He was about to offer his help when she brought the curved edge down on the door and the resulting metallic bang had him flinching and stepping back. 

“Why—”

She shushed him before he could finish the question and Grayson frowned as he watched her place her ear to the door and close her eyes. He turned, keeping an eye on the field at their back and the biters her knocking could have attracted. 

“Something’s in there.”

Her statement brought him back around. “And now they know we’re coming.” 

“Breaking the door down would have done the same thing,” he frowned at her logic, mostly because he couldn’t argue with it, and she rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll try the doorknob.” 

“Shouldn’t you have done that first?”

“Again, no.” She stopped and turned so that she faced him. “If there was a person, a regular non-cannibalistic person, behind that door knocking lets them know we’re _not_ of the flesh-eating. Not knocking could get us shot or worse.” 

“Worse?” 

Her mouth thinned and she turned back to the door before muttering, “You _really_ don’t want to know.” 

She switched the crowbar to her left hand and grasped the doorknob in her right. He watched the tension build in her shoulders, pulling them up and back before she tried the knob and it turned easily in her hand. She glanced back at him and mouthed, one, two, three, at him before yanking the door open and stepping back in one smooth motion. A biter stumbled forward into the sunshine and the scent of rotting was suddenly overwhelming, but Grayson stepped forward, taking Buffy’s place in front of the thing that had once been a person and brought the parang down and into his forehead. 

A meaty thwack accompanied the impact and the blade split his skull, dropping the biter to his knees and Grayson stepped back, tugging the parang free as he fell forward to the gravel walkway. Grayson finally noticed his attire after the fact; blue coveralls, stained with blood and torn at the shoulder told the simple parts of the story of how the poor bastard had become a biter. 

He glanced at Buffy who was also looking over the corpse at their feet before he questioned, “Think there’s another?”

“Possibly,” she admitted with a shrug, “He could have been bit outside or in. No way to know,” she looked up at him and he could see the humor in her gaze as she completed the thought, “And only one way to find out.” 

“Is this where I say ladies first?”

“A gentleman,” she retorted dryly before stepping over the corpse and past the threshold. 

Grayson cast one more glance at the field behind them before following her into the gas station and found the only light piercing the darkness of the backroom was from the open door at his back. His nose wrinkled with the horrendous smell that permeated the overly warm air and he wondered if was because of the biter or if the biter had been polluted by the rotting drinks and food in the coolers of the gas station or the third option; both combined to create this god-awful stench. 

Buffy’s head shook and he wondered if she was trying to shake off the smell as she made her way forward, crowbar in the ready position and Grayson followed her example, lifting the parang higher. The backroom had been the station’s office area and was filled with an old looking desk and older looking filing cabinets that Buffy took a moment to search before making her way to the narrow hallway leading into darker areas of the station. Her crowbar was switched into her right hand and Grayson frowned as she fumbled with her holster, the side reserved for her crowbar, a moment before producing a penlight. 

His brows rose. “Where did you get that?”

“Weren’t you ever a boy scout?” She replied, clicking on the penlight and sweeping the hallway before heading down it. 

Grayson glanced once more behind them, contemplated closing the door to stop any surprises, but refrained since Buffy hadn’t requested it and it still offered them some light. He turned, following her down the hallway and found Buffy opening the door to the men’s bathroom and his frown was back. “What are you doing?” 

“Bathrooms tend to have dispensers with all sorts of goodies in them,” she explained before ordering, “Keep the door open for me.” 

He stepped forward and caught the door with the edge of his foot before turning to keep it at his back so he could watch the hallway as she rummaged. He heard the bending of metal and then a pop that drew his gaze. He found Buffy swinging the bag she wore to her front and removing the condoms that filled the dispenser. “You really need all those?” 

She glanced back at him and grinned at his question. “I don’t.” Her head shook as she further explained, “Big dateless monster here, but I can trade them with those that do.” 

“Smart.” 

“I also horde toilet paper,” she stated before going back to the condoms. 

Grayson felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth and he gave into it before offering, “Even smarter.” 

“Gotta be.” Buffy agreed while nodding sagely as she finished with condoms and made her way past him to tackle the women’s bathroom. 

He fell into step behind her and held the door, searching the hallway as she searched the bathroom before the same metallic pop filled this bathroom. “Oh! Jackpot!”

“What? Toilet paper?” He glanced back into the bathroom and found her showing him two handfuls of small square packages and his brows rose as he corrected himself, “Aspirin. Toss me one.”

“Got a headache?” She questioned even as she did as requested. 

He caught the square package with his left, the parang still held at ready in his right, and turned it over in his hand so he could read the ingredients. It was a generic brand, but that didn’t make them any less potent and he smiled at the fact that it was ibuprofen and not aspirin which meant it would help with inflammation and was less likely to thin the blood. He wouldn’t have turned down aspirin, but as pain relievers went he was more likely to choose ibuprofen since it treated more symptoms. 

“Anything interesting?” 

Buffy was suddenly in front of him and Grayson flinched, gaze sliding past her to look down the hallway as she retrieved the two pack of ibuprofen from him. He shook his head and hastily explained, “Its ibuprofen, not aspirin.” 

“And that’s a good?” 

He nodded and watched make her way through doorway and head further down the hallway. She didn’t wait for an explanation so Grayson didn’t offer one as he trailed behind her. They passed the metal door that looked as if it led in the freezer area of the store and she hesitated at the door that looked as if it led into the actual store. Grayson stiffened with her hesitation and his grip on the parang tightened as he waited for Buffy’s signal and spared one more glance behind them. 

He turned back to see Buffy raise her crowbar and rap it against the door in front of her. Several tense, quiet moments passed before she inclined her head and clicked off the penlight. It was stored back in her holster and shifted her crowbar to her left hand before placing her right on the doorknob. She glanced back over her shoulder and order, “Back up a few.” 

His footfalls were suddenly incredibly loud, but he did as requested and Buffy yanked the door open. She followed him in his retreat, giving the door enough room to open all the way and herself enough room to maneuver. Nothing but quiet greeted them and the barred windows offered more than enough light which explained why she’d tucked the penlight away. Grayson shifted, suddenly anxious to search the store, but Buffy remained motionless in front of him and he resisted the urge to hurry her along. 

Instead he stilled all movement as he attempted to mimic Buffy and just listened. His head cocked, but he didn’t close his eyes, didn’t dare to lose his strongest sense, but he willed himself to hear past the rushing fear that filled his head with cotton and the pounding of his heart. The foul scent of the store reacquainted itself with him and his nose wrinkled, but the sudden shuffle of steps halted his next breath. 

Buffy stepped forward, closer to the opened doorway and she raised her right hand, fingers counting down to from three to one before she suddenly started whistling. The sound of it made him jump, regardless of the warning, but he followed her into the store regardless. Her whistling continued as she switched the crowbar to her right hand and Grayson reached the doorway as Buffy took out the biter closet to her and Grayson could see two more making their way along the aisles. 

He glanced down, careful of the floor since he’d run into a few of them that could only crawl, as he made his way closer to the biter nearest him. She had once been pretty, brown hair now matted and blood-soaked and she was missing a flesh from her throat and chest, but the face was remarkable untouched and held very little decay. She’d been dead less than forty-eight hours would be his guess and he sent her a silent apology before dodging her reaching arms and nearly cleaving that pretty face in two. 

She was heavier than he’d expected as she stumbled, falling to her knees and he nearly lost his weapon to her. Grayson brought his boot up and placed it against her shoulder, grip tightening on the hilt of his weapon before he shoved her away. He’d seen Buffy do much the same previous night with a wayward biter that had stumbled across their camp and the motioned worked just as well for him, if not as smoothly, as it had for her. 

He looked up and saw Buffy taking on the last biter with a viciousness that didn’t surprise him much these days. The body fell to the ground and she stepped back and walked along the far back wall, searching each aisle meticulously before making her way towards him and then past. She reached the cashier’s counter and hopped on top of it, looking back behind it and then turned to sweep her gaze across the store once more before announcing, “ _Freeandclear_ ,” she said it quickly, making it all one word as she leapt down. 

Now that the coast was clear Grayson took the time to question, “Were you whistling the song from Snow White?” 

“No,” Buffy denied, but off his raised eye brow she conceded, “Maybe,” before she made her way back to Grayson and asked, “Which side do you want to take?” 

His gaze turned to the contents, or lack thereof, on the shelves and he frowned before offering, “I’ll start closest to the freezers and we meet in the middle?”

“A sound plan.” She turned to make her way to the front of the store. 

Grayson turned, stepping over his biter and retraced his steps to the back of the store. He gave the glass doors a quick once over, but the thought of opening one of them and making the stench _that_ much worse turned his stomach. Deciding to the save those for last he turned the first row and shelves and found them bare except for bag of beef jerky that had been wedged between the grating and the shelving units. He tugged it free and held onto it, suddenly aware of the fact that he lacked a bag to stuff items in and promised himself on his next excursion he wouldn’t be so careless. 

The next aisle house signage that claimed it held pastries and sweets, but he found nothing of the sort so he made his way, almost dejectedly, to the next aisle and paused at the entry to it. He blinked, frowned and blinked again, but lo and behold the aisle’s contents didn’t change and he hurriedly called to Buffy, “I think we’ll need your bag over here!”

There was a shuffle of steps and a petite shadow descended upon him and Buffy laughed as she too saw the cans that sporadically lined the shelves of the row in front of them and Grayson further explained. “Someone raided the snack aisles but left these mostly untouched.” 

“Their stupidity is our incredible gain!” Buffy’s excited reply had him smiling as she slipped past him and crouched down, reading the labels of a few of the cans as she tossed them into her bag. “We’ve got soup! Chicken noodle, cream of mushroom, which I’d never thought I’d be happy to see, and,” she grabbed a few more, “Oh! Broccoli cheese!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious as Grayson looked at the row above hers and collected the cans on the top shelf that appeared to be mostly vegetables, but his eyes widened when he saw a fruit salad. “Emma will love this,” Buffy looked up and smiled at the can he presented her with before going back to collecting her own. 

He added those cans to his growing collection and hesitated on the next batch, fingers slipping away from the can when he caught sight of the predominately red label. His hand clenched into a fist as he glared at the can of papaya, Rebecca’s favorite fruit, which would be wasted on the rest of them. She’d loved it, all of it, even the damn seeds that she’d grind up and add into different recipes since they had a peppery kick to them. 

“Grayson?” Buffy’s hesitant calling of his name drew his frustrated gaze from the can of fruit to her and she looked up at him from her crouched position. “Something the matter?” 

“Papaya,” he retorted as if it should explain everything. She frowned and rose, studying the can at his fingertips before she looked at him questioningly and he sighed. “Rebecca loved it.” 

Her eyes widened in understanding and she returned her gaze to the can and her careful study. They stood there a moment, maybe longer, just watching it before she offered, voice soft and nearly hesitant, “I bet Emma would love it too,” Grayson frowned and Buffy turned her gaze on him as she further explained, “I’m sure she’d enjoy stories about how much her mom liked it as well. I know I like when my dad…”

She trailed off and he suddenly felt, overwhelmingly, like an ass. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt like one, but he did and he attempted to rectify the situation by moving past it. “Thanks.” He reached out and added the few cans to his collection before meeting her gaze and adding, “I will. Tell Emma that is.” 

“Good,” her smile was small, but soon widened as she finished, “And you did good as well, rookie.” 

“Rookie?” She nodded and crouched back down to complete her scavenging. Grayson frowned at the top of her head as he reiterated, “Rookie?” 

He continued to spare a glare or two in her general direction as he gathered, completely unaware that her teasing had refocused him on the task at hand and not the memories that threatened to overtake most survivors at any given time as he questioned, once more for good measure, “ _Rookie_?”

+

The end.


	6. civilian

Title: civilian  
Word Count: 4060  
Prompt: #350 – sarcasm   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: Hank didn’t want to push his daughter onward unless absolutely necessary, since the realistic part of him knew Sarah had a point, and the chance of them getting to California were getting slimmer with every passing day.

+

Sunlight spilled across the asphalt and brought with a heat haze that made the area above the main road leading into Blount Island Command look as if water was coursing over the length of it. Brown eyes closed a moment behind a pair of Ray Bans before Jacob opened them and pulled his gaze from the road to the field beyond it. He was stationed on top of the check-in station with Bradley, a Marine from East Texas, who was prone to bouts of swearing in the most colorful of ways and still, somehow, managed to have the patience of a saint. 

The check-in station was one long platform that housed massive floodlights and covered the road leading into the base with a small thick-walled building beneath it. There was another Marine and a civilian inside that building with much larger and more intimidating weapons than the Remington M700, called a Bravo-51 by Bradley, which he currently held across his lap. They were under the buddy-system when on duty, a civilian always being paired with military, and Jacob had learned more from his partners than the training the base required before allowing people to volunteer—which he guessed was the point. 

Classes were held every morning at eight o’clock and showed people the basics of hand to hand combat, which was dedicated to evading the bites of the infected, and weapons training followed. Those that wanted to volunteer with the military were separated from those that simply wished to learn how to protect themselves and tested under different situations and with a multitude of weapons to find which the station best fit them. Jacob had been assigned as a lookout and designated the Remington during those trials and while his position could be boring at times he’d found he liked helping to protect the 1629 people currently residing at Blount. 

They’d been nearly 1800 a month before, but a breakout of the infection had culled their numbers by well over a hundred and the process in which allowing other survivors access to the base had been reassessed. Now all newcomers were put through a rigorous physical check that involved a thorough search of their person. A search performed by members of the CDC, the group that had lost the most members during the outbreak, but regardless of their recent losses still seemed to garner the majority of interest and volunteers. 

Most survivors of the infection were still hoping for a cure and more than willing to help those in search of one and since all members of the base were required to volunteer somewhere in the compound it worked in the CDC’s favor—though they tended to turn away those without some form of medical training. Jacob’s mom would’ve been a perfect fit since she’d been a registered nurse, but he’d lost her the night she came home from work after being bitten on the wrist while administering first aid to a patient. 

A shot and a bandage had been the doctor’s prescription, before anyone had known what the hell was going on, and the next morning Jacob had found her and what was left of his dad in their bedroom. His mom had given chase, the sounds she’d made were still the most terrifying things he’d ever heard, and he’d locked her out of his room with a computer chair wedged beneath the knob. Jacob had somehow had the presence of mind to pack a bag for himself before fleeing his childhood home and run straight into his elderly neighbor, Mr. Waters, a Korean War vet who’d known exactly what to do and where to go. 

Jacob’s hands tightened around the Remington as the memories of his mom’s grunts and cries raised the hairs along the back of his neck and he refocused on the task at hand, returning to his search of the field for signs of the infected. He unfocused his gaze, like Bradley had taught him, and waited for movement to draw his attention as the canopy they’d set up over their heads fluttered in the slight breeze. Sunscreen was a hard commodity to come by which led command to find ways around the need of it that usually involved light layers of clothing while patrolling or canopies when on lookout. 

“What do we have here?” Bradley spaced out the words, making the question last longer than it needed and thus racketing up the tension that followed it. 

Jacob turned his head, drawing his gaze away from his search of field to glare at the side of his companion’s head as Bradley focused and refocused the binoculars he used to search the road. Jacob watched him a few seconds before prompting, “Well? What do we have?” 

His question dropped Bradley’s arms and his eyes gathered at the corners, the eye black he wore made the smile more pronounced as he offered the binoculars to Jacob and pointed west. Jacob didn’t bother to return his smile as he accepted the binoculars and followed the road a bit before frowning at the sight of three vehicles heading their way. A black SUV led the caravan with a truck following only a few yards behind and an ambulance carried up the rear. 

The ambulance raised his brows and he dropped the binoculars and turned to meet Bradley’s smile with confusion and the Marine chuckled at his expression. “Fresh blood is a good thin’, Smith.” 

“If they pass the physical.” 

“Fair enough,” Bradley agreed to his counterargument and Jacob went back to watching the caravan’s approach and searching the field as Bradley grabbed the two-way sitting between them. “Parker, we’ve got company comin’.” 

“Good or bad?” was the static filled reply. 

“Leanin’ towards good.” 

“ _Wilco_.”

The SUV hit the turn off for the base and slowed to a crawl before stopping a few feet from the platform and Jacob watched it sit idle a moment before shutting off. The truck followed them, but remained idling, and the ambulance stopped on the road as the driver and passenger doors of the SUV opened. The driver looked to be a man, older than Jacob or Bradley, but young enough that he appeared fit and able bodied with an impressively sized shotgun propped against his shoulder. 

The passenger was smaller, blonder and Jacob made his way forward, outside the canopy’s shade and to the edge of the platform, Bradley only a step behind, as she made her way around the back of the SUV to the truck. She reached the driver’s side and the window rolled down, giving the pair a glimpse of a man that was closer to Bradley’s age than Jacob’s, as she ordered him to stay in the truck. She completed the process with the ambulance driver that was appeared to be a woman before the passenger went to the back of the ambulance and proceeded to climb the lights on the back of it with the familiar ease. 

She pulled herself onto the roof of the vehicle and completed one rotation in which Jacob assumed she gathered her bearings before focusing on the field at the group’s back. She wore a shoulder harness, but instead of pulling the gun that sat beneath her left arm she slid a bow off her right shoulder and Jacob frowned at the feathered end of the arrows sticking out of a circular bag on her back. 

She freed one of them and tucked it against the string of the bow as she studied their surroundings and Bradley cleared his throat before stating, “Don’t see that every day.” 

“Not usually, no.” Jacob agreed. 

“Think I’m in love.” 

Jacob rolled his eyes even as his interest peeked and he countered, “Hold off that emotion ‘til they make it through the physical.” 

“Too late.” 

+

Emma’s excited chatter accompanied Buffy’s vigil as Grayson walked the four year old around the ambulance to help her burn off some of her excess energy after her nap. Her steps were closer to a run, skipping along in front of Grayson as she spun a tale about all the animals she’d seen that day outside her window and since Buffy was certain there’d been no animals on the way there it made her claim of zebras all the more interesting. Her mouth quirked, a smile threatening to spill over as she added a yellow dinosaur to the adventure and Grayson questioned the color rather than its presence. 

The clatter of metal clanging together drew her gaze away from the field to the platform behind her and Buffy’s head inclined at the sight of a ladder now hanging down from the center. Emma’s voice quieted and Buffy assumed she was now watching as one of the men guarding the entrance to the base climbed down as the two men below held the ladder steady. He replaced one of them as a spotter and that man made his way upward before the process was repeated and the new pair made themselves comfortable on the roof. 

Her chin dropped and watched as the two men that had been watching them make their way forward and Buffy’s palm itched to pull the Glock. Guns tended to work better with the living than her bow when it came to intimidating those that wished to cause her and those around her harm. Buffy turned, spared one more glance back at the field before watching the pair walk down the small drive leading to the road and the ambulance still parked on it. 

Grayson now held the keys to his ambulance and truck and Buffy was holding onto the SUV’s since Sarah and her dad were currently being processed. They’d wanted to bring them all in at the same time, but Buffy had declined, unwilling to leave their vehicles unattended. Grayson had agreed to wait with her and the fact that his hand strayed to the shotgun strapped to his thigh as the two men reached them made some of the tightness in Buffy’s shoulders ease and her grateful for his presence. Emma had placed herself behind Grayson, arms wrapped around the opposite thigh and her face buried against the back of it. 

“Hello.” Buffy’s gaze was drawn from Emma to the man with the close cropped hair, which screamed military, and stood straight and stared at Grayson, Buffy assumed he was giving intense eye-contact, as he stated, “Lance Corporal Bradley J. Michaels.” 

“Grayson Lewis,” was replied and his left hand, the right remained on the butt of the shotgun, lifted to scratch at the back of his head before he offered, “I feel like I should tack on paramedic.” 

The other man grinned and the black paint beneath either eye, reminding Buffy of strongly her cheerleader days, made his cheeks more pronounced as he offered, “We’re always in need of medics.” 

There was a soft twang to his voice that Buffy had heard on their way through Texas and the other man, who on closer inspection looked about her age, stepped forward and offered his name. “Jacob Smith,” the teenager went to one knee and addressed Emma, “And who’s this?” 

Buffy stepped back, looking both ways down the road the ambulance was parked on before turning around and looking across the field as Emma quietly told the men her name. Her excitement having melted away with their presence, but the teenager managed to make her smile reappear by asking about the scarf in her hair. Buffy looked down at the group and saw Emma’s head tilted all the way back so she could see her and exclaimed, “Buffany made me!” 

She smiled at the butchering of her name, wondering absently if it was Karma, before noticing she now had everyone’s attention. Grayson was watching her with thinly veiled amusement, his hand still on the shotgun, and the lance corporal seemed more interested in staring at her legs than anywhere else on her person. The teenager was offering her an easy smile that highlighted the dimple in his chin and made the dark color of his eyes a little more welcoming. 

His smile widened just a bit and Buffy realized, belatedly, that he was cute and she was staring. She could feel the blush burning her cheeks as she dragged her gaze away from Jacob and his knowing smile before offering, “Buffy Summers.” 

“Miss Summers, it is a pleasure to meet you.” 

Her lips rolled inward, suppressing the smile Bradley’s thickly laid words invoked and Grayson’s amusement only seemed compounded by the obvious flirting. He grinned up at her and countered, “I suppose it wasn’t nearly as much of a pleasure to meet me.” 

“I guess not,” Buffy agreed her smile spilling forth so that she and Grayson shared the moment. 

“What can _Ah_ say?” Bradley offered, “I’ve got an eye for the ladies.” 

“Any lady,” Jacob snarked.

“Hey now! You’re fixin’—”

“To state the truth?” 

The two men shared their own easy smile and Buffy glanced over at Grayson whose hand had left the shotgun so that he could set Emma on his hip. She was watching the interaction between the two with obvious interest and with such attentiveness that Buffy wouldn’t be surprised if mimicked Bradley’s accent for the next little while. She turned away from the conversation to look out at the field and found it empty once again. 

“Where are all the deadites?” She turned around and looked down at Bradley and Jacob. “People usually equal deadites and there’s an obvious lacking of them.” 

“Deadites?” Jacob questioned with a raised brow. 

Bradley ignored that comment and addressed Buffy, “We keep a clean house. Allowing one at the fence brings more so we don’t allow the one.” 

“And their bodies?” Grayson inquired. 

“Cremated.” Jacob explained.

The gate ten yards back from the platform opened, distracting Buffy and Grayson from their line of questioning to reveal her dad and Sarah making their way forward. Their hair was damp and a colorful bit of tape was wrapped around the bed of their left elbows which had Buffy assuming the exam, that had taken the better part of an hour, included a blood sample. Buffy looked out, past them to the fence topped with barbed wire that stretched on for as far as the eye could see and surrounded a compound that looked massive when compared to Camp Blanding. 

Her mouth turned down with the thought of all the people that had succumbed to the deadites there and Buffy tried to ignore the guilt making itself known with a sudden weight in her chest and tightness around her eyes. She widened those eyes and willed the tears away as Sarah reached the ambulance and Grayson handed over the keys so that she could open the door and obtain the rifle she’d left on the passenger seat. Civilians weren’t allowed to carry guns in the buildings of the compound unless they were military personal and thus her father and Sarah and went in unarmed except for defensive weapons. Buffy hadn’t been entirely comfortable with that, but her dad had insisted they’d be fine and, to be fair, they were. 

Sarah made her way around to the back of the ambulance and slid the strap over her chest before climbing up the back to relieve Buffy. Her freckles were a starch contrast to her shallow parlor and Buffy found the tears fading under her sudden worry for the other woman. “You all right?” 

“Needles.” Sarah explained before turning to face the field and leave Buffy staring at the back of her head. 

“Alright then,” Buffy complied with the dismissal by returning her arrow to its quiver and slipping the bow over her shoulder before making her way to back of the ambulance. 

“Need a spotter?” 

Bradley’s offer brought on a smile and Buffy replied, “I’ve got it,” before climbing down the back of the ambulance.

Her booted feet touched the ground at the same time Bradley agreed, “I can see that.” 

A frown brought the lines between her dad’s brows to life and Buffy suppressed the urge to smile at his annoyance as he made his way to her. The possessive hand that landed on her shoulder didn’t help her efforts any as he led her away from Bradley and Jacob to the SUV with Grayson bringing up the rear. Buffy glanced back to see Bradley coxing a smile out of Sarah with his easy flirtation and Jacob watching their departure; he caught her watching him and winked. 

Another blush was working hard at embarrassing her as she looked back to her dad and his still frowning face. His mouth thinned and he exhaled heavily from his nose, but he seemed to rethink his next move because he hesitated before stating, “I’ll take the Glock and the keys.” 

Buffy handed over the requested items as Grayson inquired, “Can I leave the shotgun with you?” 

“Of course,” Hank replied and opened the driver’s side door to retrieve the Mossberg and pop the locks on the back doors. 

Buffy slide the bow off her shoulder and lifted the strap for the quiver over her head before opening the back door of the SUV and laying them across the backseat. Grayson’s placed his shotgun beside them and Buffy found Emma reaching for her as he leaned past her. She waited until he’d straightened before accepting her easily onto her hip and Emma’s head lowered to Buffy’s shoulder as tiny hands curled into the fabric of her shirt. 

Hank was watching her, an amused smile replacing his frown, and he nodded to Emma, “Someone’s taken a liking to you.” 

“Several someones.” Grayson observed and Buffy frowned at his smirk. 

Hank chose to ignore his comment and instead addressed them both. “They strip you down, like Parker said, and check you for bites before they take any blood samples.”

“How many vials did they draw?” 

Hank looked to Grayson and replied, “Three,” before directing the next at Buffy, “They separated us with curtains and someone of the same sex did the exam.” He reached out, settled a hand on Emma’s head. “I’m not sure who she’s going to prefer be with her. Maybe even both of you,” he looked to Grayson, his hand slipping away “So you might want to have Emma go first.” 

“Thanks,” Grayson nodded, “I will.”

“Then they let you shower.” 

Buffy blinked, green eyes suddenly looking very intensely at her dad’s damp hair before snapping, “What? They let you what?” 

“Cold water,” he hastily added before finishing with, “But it’s an actual honest to God shower.” 

“Buffany?” Emma lifted her head and Buffy was presented with some very intense eye contact from mere inches away as the little girl inquired. “Bath time?” 

“Soon,” Buffy assured her, “Very soon.” 

Her nose wrinkled, “I gonna like it?”

“I know I will.” 

“Seconded,” Grayson readily agreed before inclining his head, “I really wish I had clean clothes to put on.” 

Buffy huffed, “Don’t remind me.”

Hank nodded before adding, “We’ll move the cars into the compound and discuss living arrangements when you’re done.”

Grayson handed over the keys to the ambulance as he inquired, “There’re things to discuss?”

“I think so,” Hank answered his with a less than enthused response, but he shook it off and motioned them forward, “Go! Enjoy your showers. I’ll handle things here.” 

+

Clouds spanned the sky above him and the moon cast the world in a blue tint as Hank listened to the quiet sounds of the base settling down for the night. They snagged a little corner of field, tucked away behind the eighteen foot tall fence that whistled when the wind picked up and was almost as comforting as the steel of the SUV. The main compound was several hundred yards away and if they’d wanted to sleep in the barracks, with the comfort of brick and mortar surrounding them, they’d had to of turned over their vehicles, any guns and all provisions. 

The barracks were reserved for those able and willing to stay on indefinitely at the base. Something Sarah had done as soon as the group was behind the fence and as far as Hank could tell she hadn’t spared them a backwards glance as of yet. Grayson had hesitated at the prospect of an indefinite stay and held onto his shotgun. His ambulance was parked next their SUV and he was currently fast asleep beside Hank on a cot provided by the base. 

Hank understood why they’d wanted their weapons turned over, it added to their own rotation and not everyone who had a gun knew how to use it, and—as far as he could tell—those on duty were always armed. Limiting the amount of those armed within in buildings dropped down the prospect of friendly fire pretty well and there was a heavy emphasis on self-defense training. A training Buffy had already signed Grayson and himself up for in the morning with the agreement that Hank would watch Emma during weapons training so she could better use her Glock. 

The crunch of tires over grass brought on a smile and Hank sat up, the nylon of the sleeping bag draped over his cot made a whispering noise as he brought his boots to the dirt and stood. He waved to the two men patrolling the camp area using a golf cart before making his way past Grayson, his was face slack and worry free, and ducked under the clothes lines stretched out between the ambulance and SUV. Not only had the base allowed them a shower, one every two days actually, it also allowed them the use of their washing machines, once every two weeks, but dryers were seen as a waste of electricity; hence the need for the clothes lines. 

Hank knew there was a chance that the amenities of the base might extend their stay from a few days to indefinitely which was why he’d scheduled himself an hour at the phone line tomorrow in the hope of getting through to Joyce. He didn’t want to push his daughter onward unless absolutely necessary, since the realistic part of him knew Sarah had a point, and the chance of them getting to California were getting slimmer with every passing day. The infected’s numbers were growing by leaps and bounds and Hank had found hope was a sparse commodity with most survivors. 

A breeze brought the clothes lines to life and made the fence hum at his back as Hank made his way towards the tent he and Buffy hadn’t used since Ocala. He looked in the opening and saw his daughter and Emma fast asleep. The sight of Emma tucked in tight against Buffy on his daughter’s cot, while the other went unused, didn’t surprise him in the least. The little girl had grown attached to Buffy in the few days the group had been together and he was certain, that fact more than the possible loss of his shotgun, had kept Grayson in their camp. 

He stepped back, smile still in place, as he looked down the few rows of cars in the same situation as their group. Wanting the safety of the base without the loss of their weapons and freedom and Hank was certain they’d been given the same warning. If a gun discharged for any reason other than to remove the threat of the infected than the person, or persons, responsible would be ejected from the compound with extreme prejudice. Hank had no intention of finding out what they meant by extreme prejudice and he’d made that plainly clear to Buffy as well. 

The eye roll that had accompanied his chiding had made him smile and prompted him to stress the issue until Buffy huffed and took Emma off to explore. That had left Hank and Grayson with the rest of the late afternoon to relax and share stories about their lives before the world went to shit. Paramedics really had the most interesting stories and Hank wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the truth behind random objects being put in random orifices, but surely there were only so many times a person could trip and fall on a broom. Hank head shook and he made his way back to this cot, casting one last look around before lying down for the night. 

+

The end.


	7. skinny love

Title: skinny love  
Word Count: 1245  
Prompt: #353 in flagrante   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: Buffy’s mouth quirked, her head shaking at the oddity of what would’ve once been a normal interaction between two consenting adults.

* * *

Grey clouds hung low in the sky, blocking the sun and bringing with them a gentle breeze to help cut through the humidity thickening the air. Buffy worked at freeing the laundry from the clothes lines stretched between their group’s vehicles while keeping a close eye on a chattering Emma. The little girl was currently regaling her with tales of those who protected the base and Buffy blamed her dad, Hank Summers, for the presence of ninjas in that tale. Last night beside the campfire he’d spun his own fairytale that had basically been a hodgepodge of a bunch of Bruce Lee’s films and while entertaining it seemed to have brought on a new and violent flare to Emma’s imagination. 

She watched her mime chopping an opponent as she explained, “Walter made them dead,” blue eyes were turned on Buffy and widened for dramatic effect as she emphasized, “More dead.” 

She freed her dad’s boxers from the line and draped them over her arm, with only a slight mental wince, as she nodded her head in understanding of Emma’s explanation and agreed, “I think Walter is a fine name for a ninja.” 

“Yep!” Her excitement popped the ‘p’ and had her bouncing on the toes of her sneakers as Buffy moved to the back of the SUV and dropped off her dad’s unmentionables on the backseat. “I can help!” 

Buffy turned to find Emma directly behind her, not entirely clean hands reaching upward and quickly countered, “But you are helping!” 

“I am?” 

Her head cocked, brow wrinkling in a way that made Buffy’s mouth quirk as she nodded her agreement. “You are. You’re keeping me company and that is the most important job of all.” 

“Oh,” she was quiet a moment, as if processing Buffy’s assessment of their tasks, before she nodded, “Okay,” and followed Buffy back towards the clothes line. “We gonna be safe here?”

Her hands stilled while freeing her tank top from the line and Buffy frowned at the striped cotton before she finished taking it down and turned to see Emma staring up at her. Those blue eyes were narrowed in concentration and while random shifts in topics were par for the course when dealing with children the worry she heard in Emma’s voice gave her pause. Buffy squatted down, draping the tank top across one of her thighs and placed herself at eye level with her as she questioned, “Why do you ask?” 

“There are ninjas,” Emma stated as fact before continuing, “what if they not strong enough?”

Buffy reached out, settling her hands on Emma’s shoulders and she met her gaze, kept it as she explained, “I think we’re as safe as we can be.” She gave a gentle squeeze of those so thin shoulders and added, “You know who’s strong?” 

“Buffany!” Emma exclaimed readily enough. 

“I am,” Buffy agreed with a laugh before adding, “And so is your Uncle Grayson.”

“And Mr. Hank!” 

Buffy’s smile stretched with the prefix before her dad’s first name as she nodded. “That’s right, but you know who else is strong?” 

Her brow furrowed before she questioned, “Ninjas?”

Buffy shook her head. “Emma.” 

Blue eyes widened even as her shoulders lifted and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I can be _ah_ Power Ranger?”

“Can be?” Buffy questioned with exaggerated confusion, “You mean you aren’t already?” 

Emma’s smile grew wider still, “I’m yellow!” She stepped back and Buffy’s hands slipped away as she watched the now excited four year old perform random kicks and jumps between the two vehicles with a few, “Hi-yah!” peppered in for good measure. 

Buffy rose, snagging the tank top before it could tumble to the dirt and returned to the task at hand as the clouds shifted, allowing through the first few rays of sunlight she’d seen that day. The breeze stirred between the cars as she finished another line and deposited the clothing on the backseat of the SUV to be sorted later as Emma darted past her, aiming a high kick at the tire closet to her. She bounced off it and nearly stumbled, but quickly regained her footing and was already scrambling across the dying grass towards the ambulance. Those little sneakers kicking up dirt and dust as Buffy made her way over to Emma and Grayson’s laundry and began to collect it as well smiling at how very tiny Emma’s socks were. 

An uncomfortable laugh inclined her head and Emma’s chatter quieted as she made her way to Buffy’s side, small hands grabbing her nylon encased thigh. Buffy placed a comforting hand in her damp head, mock karate kicks apparently took a lot out of her, knowing strangers tended to frighten the child. Her own head turned, gaze narrowing behind her sunglasses as she caught sight of Grayson, the owner of that particular laugh, and her brows rose at the sight of his companion. 

She was pretty, barely wearing any clothing, but still extremely pretty and from what Buffy could tell she was making a very obvious play for her traveling companion. Thumbs hooked into the belt loops of what had once been a pair of jeans, that had been cut short enough to show the white cloth that made up the pockets, and she pushed them down slightly with the movement of those hands. Drawing attention to the tautness of her stomach and the fact that she only wore a bikini top helped emphasize just how taunt other aspects of her physique were as well.

The whole outfit was a little desperate and, hello, not the best attire for an apocalypse—especially the lack of weapons. Buffy might’ve been more accepting of her attire, it really was uncomfortably hot in Florida most of the time, if she could have seen a weapon somewhere on her person. Buffy might’ve also been more forgiving if she wasn’t just a smidgen jealous of the way the brunette filled out that triangle top since there’d been a time, not so long ago, when she’d have been able to do the same, but that had been before the world she knew went away and she lost fifteen pounds with it. 

Unflattering thoughts aside Buffy would’ve assumed she’d caught Grayson red-handed in the flirtation, but by the way he was scratching the back at the back of his head and inching backwards—it was a sedative inching, but inching nonetheless—he was as uncomfortable _in_ the situation as she was watching it. Her mouth quirked, her head shaking at the oddity of what would’ve once been a normal interaction between two consenting adults, well almost consenting, and her amusement allowed, “Grayson, you hussy, you,” to tumbled past her lips. 

“Hussy?” Emma parroted and green eyes widened as Buffy flinched, glancing down at Emma, who looked up at her and repeated, voice louder, “Hussy!” 

The brunette caught sight of them and a frown made itself known between a pair of incredibly maintain eyebrows and Buffy suppressed the urge to barter for a pair of tweezers as she scooped up the four year old and hushed her as her cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

Hoping to distract both Emma and herself Buffy questioned, “Still want to help me with laundry?” as she maneuvered them away from an amused Grayson and annoyed brunette. 

“Yes’em!” 

The slight twang, which was reminiscent of Bradley had Buffy’s smile widening as she brought Emma before a shirt and ordered, “You pull and I hold.” 

“Gotcha!”

* * *

The end.


	8. we were wealth

Title: we were wealth  
Word Count: 2415  
Prompt: #356 drusy quartz   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: If Lora’s mother had taught her anything it was to take pride in ones work.

* * *

A light sheen of sweat gathered on her brow and Dr. Lora Garcia could feel the loose tank top she wore sticking to her back as she kept her palms and feet flat against the concrete floor and held the Downward Facing Dog pose for five inhalations. On the fifth exhale she lifted her right leg up, balancing her weight on her palms and feeling the exertion in her arms, as she pivoted her right hip over her left. She felt the stretch in her groin before gently pushing down on her left heel and taking some of the weight from her upper body. 

Holding the pose for a fifteen count, too tired from her late night to hold for a thirty, Lora then lowered her right leg and repeated the process with her left. Brown eyes focused on her necklace, which had slipped free from her sports bra, and she watched the pendent sway with her movements. The diluted early morning light that spilled through the windows set up high on walls of the barracks caught the sugar-like appearance of the quartz causing the grey stone to glitter. 

Lora smiled as she lowered her left leg and placed herself back into Downward Facing Dog before rising and feeling the slight weight of the pendent settle against her chest. It had been a gift from her parents when she’d been accepted into medical school and while they hadn’t the money to purchase truly precious stones Lora treasured it nonetheless. Even more so now that her parents were no longer living but, thankfully, they’d passed before the world turned into the hell her mother had prayed daily for salvation from. 

Spreading her legs hip-width apart, she raised her arms to cross her forearms over her head and grasp her elbows before beginning Sundial Salutation. The pendent tumbled with her sideways movements, but rather than pause to tuck it away she simply allowed the weight and memory of it to remain with her as she completed her morning yoga routine. A routine she’d incorporated into her life while still in college and had continued it on through her time at the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston, Texas. 

She’d remained in Texas, her family in Laredo, through all of her education and it wasn’t until she’d graduated and her parents passing that she’d accepted a job in Florida. The car accident had killed them both on impact and Lora had remained in the state long enough to witness the drunk driver receive a slap on the wrist, at least in her opinion five to ten years in prison for taking the life of two people was a slap, before accepting a job elsewhere. Most of her family had remained in Mexico City when her parents had immigrated to the United States leaving her alone in a country she’d grown to love and so she had arranged to leave the state as soon as possible and Florida, with similar weather to Texas, seemed the most welcoming. 

The job she’d accepted had little to do with contagious diseases, but the outbreak at Blount a few months prior had left her as head of what remained of the CDC since she was the only person with a PhD left still alive. Lora moved back towards her cot with a sigh and slowly rolled her neck forward, stretching the last of her late night away, before snagging the water bottle she kept beside it and the towel she kept draped over the metal frame. She headed toward the community bathrooms with one last longing glance at her pillow and the sad knowledge that it wasn’t her day to shower. 

Lora would have to settle for an inadequate wipe down in one of the sinks, regardless of the fact that having a head position in the compound allowed her some privileges. Privileges that she felt were an abuse of power so she refrained from taking extra portions at meal time and kept her washing allowance, for both her clothing and her person, to the same strict regulations as everyone else. It wasn’t always the easiest of tasks, but she felt better for doing so and it allowed her to continue meeting her staff on even ground. 

The narrow hallway was still cool from the relatively free humid night that had brought with it a chill to the morning air, but Lora knew it was only a matter of time before the temperature within the barracks rose towards unpleasant. She found the bathroom as quiet as the sleeping quarters she shared with the rest of the single women, woman’s lib was far from most military compounds, and she stepped inside and welcomed that silence before turning towards one of the sinks. 

She took a swig from her water bottle before crouching down to turn the water on for the sink closet to the door. She refrained from hitting the lights since similar to the barracks there were windows set high in walls and they allowed in light well enough and Lora tried her best to conserve energy where she could. Rising from her crouched position she draped her towel across the sink next to her and took one last pull from the water bottle before putting it down. 

With a frown at her flushed cheeks and a wrinkle of her nose at the state of her lopsided pony tail Lora pulled off her tank top. It too was placed at the sink next to her before she turned on the water, keeping the faucet turned to cold, and welcomed the first splash against her face before snagging some of the soap from the dispenser nearest her and cleaning off a night and morning worth of sweat. 

In a few minutes and several splashes of cool, never cold during the summer in Florida, water later Lora found herself feeling somewhat refreshed and she finished rinsing the rest of the soap from under her arms before she grabbed her towel. She dried herself with the abrading cloth before crouching down once more to turn off the water to the sink and grab the rest of her things. She took another long swig of the water bottle before leaving the bathroom and made her way down the still quiet hallway, it was barely past six in the morning and most of the other women in her barrack volunteered in the school and for kitchen duties. 

Duties that usually consisted of cleaning rather than cooking since the compound’s cook was still active and rarely let anyone he didn’t trust near his meals. Since the meals ranged from decent to delicious Lora wasn’t one to complain and that allowed the others in her barrack to sleep in when they could and this early morning only saw her awake and moving about. She wasn’t scheduled in at the lab until seven so she still had enough time to change and bribe the cook for a batch of coffee grinds. 

Lora was willing to trade most things for coffee—perhaps even sexual favors if the grinds were fresh enough.

* * *

A stained coffee cup sat empty on the corner of her desk as Lora continued making her notes about the most recent batch of survivors that had come to Blount. The days of entering patient information into a computer for easy access had faded away and rudimentary alphabetical filing had made a comeback, at least at their compound, and the cabinets that housed those files currently lined the back wall of the room Lora had arranged as her office and exam room. The last leader of the CDC had claimed the space as their office and their office alone, but Lora couldn’t rationalize having the exam room double as an operating room. 

Operating rooms needed to be as sterile as possible and with the lack of antibiotics that need was more prevalent than ever before. Though, she supposed, the lax view on sterilization might have been a factor in why an outbreak happened within the walls of the compound to begin with and why the infection was localized to the area the CDC was housed. Lora sighed and lifted her head, giving her eyes a break from the scrawled notes of the nurse that had administered the physical to the females of the newest group and made a mental note to speak with Alice about her penmanship—or lack thereof. 

The symbols chickens scratched into the dirt held more meaning than some of the markings Alice had made when she put pen to paper. If Lora’s mother had taught her anything it was to take pride in ones work, whether it was cleaning banks during off hours or working as a doctor, and haphazard and incomplete notes weren’t a help to anyone and spoke more of the volunteer’s laziness than anything else. The CDC’s section tended to have the most downtime for their volunteers since only those trained to use the equipment were allowed to do so which meant the nurses and EMTs on her staff tended to sit and wait for the next medical emergency to arise or physical to administer. It was both refreshing to have so few people in need of help and frustrating to see so few survivors rolling up to the gate as of late. 

The opening of her office door was preceded with a knock and Lora inclined her head at Russell, her second in command, and the near excitement in his face had her smiling. He made his way forward, mindless of the fact that she hadn’t invited him to do so, and hovered in front of her desk rather than taking a seat. His thin mouth was stretched into a wide smile which helped offset the narrow length of his nose, it was shame he didn’t smile more often since it suited him, and Lora watched his hands come forward, long fingers slipping together and wringing themselves. 

“Dr. Garcia—”

“Russell,” she interrupted with a faint smile, “What did we _just_ talk about.” 

He bounced, honest to God bounced, on the balls of his feet a moment before a frown stole away that smile and he offered, “Formality and the lack of need for it?” She nodded with his statement and then the smile was back as he corrected himself with, “Lora, I think I’ve got something you’d like to see.”

A brow rose as she questioned, “You can’t just tell me?”

“No,” his smile stretched wider, “I think you’ll want to see it for yourself.” 

Intrigued, Lora rose and while Russell dwarfed her small frame he still backed up a step as she freed herself from behind her desk and motioned him to lead. His brows pulled together, they were slightly bushy and always reminded Lora unflatteringly of caterpillars, before he spun and the second year med student made his way from her office. 

Russell might have had the least amount of training, but he was the last surviving member of the original CDC members. He’d been volunteering at the center when the pandemic occurred and the doctors had brought him with them when they relocated. Russell was familiar with the tests and the equipment the group had been able to pack up with them and as far as Lora was concerned he was the most experienced person on her staff which was why she’d promoted him to second rather than one of the nurses. Field medical knowledge and disease control and prevention were two entirely different beasts and Lora spent most nights in her office reading and rereading Russell’s notes and the books and medical journals he’d brought with him to the compound. 

He made his way to the far wall, leading her past the portable exam rooms which consisted of fold away screens, and stopped at the first microscope. The generator was humming outside, allowing them the power to use the machines and keep their samples refrigerated. Lora took the seat in front of the scope and leaned forward to take a look. The blood smear on the slide was a thin one and she studied the stained culture as Russell hovered patiently beside her. 

A few silent moments passed before she frowned and pulled back, brown eyes narrowing as they looked up at Russell and questioned, “There’s an overabundance of leukocytes in this culture.” 

“There’s an overabundance in all the cultures from this subject,” Russell’s correction raised her brows, but before she could comment further he added, “There’s also no trace of the pathogen.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Dr. Garcia,” he added, forgetting their conversation once again as he added, “I used the electron microscope and those leukocytes are cytotoxic lymphocyte and those are usually an indicator of a viral infection—” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Lora rose, frowning as she asked, “How many samples were taken yesterday?” 

“Ah,” Russell turned away from and moved towards the desk that dominated the center of the room. He passed, retrieving a stack of manila folders from the edge and flipped through them, his shoulders dropping before his gaze rose and he stated, “Twenty-five. It was the routine physical for the officers yesterday and the five newest editions.”

“Alright,” Lora nodded, “I want all twenty officers back in here by this afternoon and we draw new samples.” 

“Dr. Garcia,” Russell shook his head, “The subject is one of the new—”

“Don’t finish that statement Russell unless it is an absolute certainty.” She watched his mouth close before sighing. “I like Alice as much as the next person, but you and I both know that she doesn’t always pay attention to the little details. It’s an easy thing for a blood sample to get mislabeled.” 

His mouth thinned as if he wanted to argue and he held her a gaze a moment before the tension in his shoulders melted and he nodded. “You’re right, Doctor.” 

“Lora,” she corrected.

His mouth curved inward just a bit and he continued, “Lora, I’ll make arrangements for the officers. What about the newest editions?” 

She smiled. “That’s what the officers will be here for. They can track them down for us and we’ll arrange for them to come in tomorrow morning.” 

His head inclined. “You do think it’s one of them. Don’t you?” 

“I do,” she agreed, “But caution has served us well this long. Let’s hold onto it.” 

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” 

Her mouth curved inward before she shook her head. “Make the arrangements.”

* * *

The end.


	9. the best of plans

Title: the best of plans  
Word Count: 1300  
Prompt: #358 cartography   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: He watched Dr. Garcia’s brown eyes search out the corners of his office and that awareness of her surroundings made Colonel Boyd like her all the better.

* * *

Red ink stained the edge of his palm, the dry erase marker gathering in the cracks of his hand as he used a ruler to mark off the sections of local farm land that had been recently designated a free fire zone. The overabundance of the infected still coming out of Jacksonville were starting to head in the general direction of the bridges leading to and from Blount Island which meant in the next few days he’d be sending out a few of his best to steer the infected off course with hope, skill and several frags. 

Loud noises, especially those made by fragmentary hand grenades, would draw a substantial amount of them away from Blount and allow a window for another platoon to make a supply run. Boyd reached out, snagged the polymore film with the black markings and settled it over the red covered film so he could get a better idea of where he should direct his people. The black overlay held the places they’d already hit for supplies and, unfortunately, there was a lot of black on this particular map. 

A hand rose, palm cupping his chin, mindless of the red, as he scratched at the side of his face through several days’ worth of stubble. Stubble that would’ve never happened a few short months ago, but nowadays his wife had perpetual dibs on all razors his family managed to acquire, and since he wasn’t one to complain about the little things he supported her on that small luxury. His hand dropped, snagging the red marker and recapping it out of necessity since wasting anything, even a marker, was no longer an option. 

He snagged the green and used it to highlight the farms left that the teams could hit. His gaze slid to Jacksonville and he frowned at it a moment before shaking his head and directing his green marker further north on the map. They weren’t hard up enough for him to risk his men on a mission that was guaranteed to run them straight into Murphy and after how that city had burned there was a likely chance all they would find would be the infected. He did circle Yulee and make a note to do more research on it as a possibility for exploration by one of the Humvees at a later date. 

Blue eyes narrowed on the bridges again and he made a small notation for his Gy. Sgt. Harrison to have the best EOD specialist take a look at it them. There might come a time when Blount needed to be as completely removed from the rest of Florida as it possibly could, but he also knew if another outbreak happened like the previous and they didn’t have the proper means to evacuate he’d be signing a hell of a lot of people’s death warrants. 

A knock at his door dragged Boyd’s focus from the map and he finished his notations before lifting his head and then the rest of him. His back protested the misuse of being hunched over for too long and he rolled his shoulders, felt the subtle cracks within the joints before addressing the closed door, “Enter.” 

The knob turned, door opening to reveal the petite doctor running the medical unit of his compound and Boyd capped the black marker since Dr. Garcia rarely used her power around base for frivolous purposes. The same could not have been said for her predecessor, who—on more than one occasion—had barged his way into meetings he wasn’t privy to just to show the Colonel’s men he could. Dr. Garcia made her way forward, drawing his focus back to her and he watched her brown eyes search out the corners of his office and that awareness of her surroundings made him like her all the better. 

“Good morning, Doctor.” He smiled with the greeting and it brought an answering one to her face as he inquired, “How can I help you?” 

She made her way to his desk and, aside from a cursory sweep, ignored the maps spread across his desk before lifting her arms to show the manila folder she had clutched in her hands. “Colonel, do you have a moment?” 

“I do,” he nodded, “More than one even.” 

Her mouth quirked, a small snort escaping her at the terrible attempt at levity, before her gaze dipped to his desk. “Can I?” She emphasized the question with another movement of the folder. 

“Please,” He reached out and flipped the cover of the polymore sheets over to protect his most recent notations before motioning her to use the desk at will. She did as requested and the folder was opened before she began to clutter his desk with papers, papers filled with numbers and notes that at first glanced looked undecipherable. “I suppose this will be when you explain why the blood tests were performed _twice_ on the officers of my base?” He made the statement an inquiry and hastily tacked on, “Myself included.” 

“I am,” she promised, looking up to meet his gaze, “There were anomalies in the samples taken from the newest arrivals, but I wanted to make sure the samples were indeed from the newest arrivals.” 

His brow slopped downward with the word anomaly, but he nodded and simply stated “Understood,” allowing Dr. Garcia to continue her explanation.

“We tested the new samples and the anomaly was still present. I tested them myself,” she reached out and picked up one of the papers on his desk and he frowned at what appeared to be a chart of grey and greyer markers. Dr. Garcia continued, as if she completely understood his confusion but had still wanted to present him with the hard evidence, “This sample doesn’t show the protein marker we normally associate with the pathogen. There’s nothing in this sample that indicates that this person is even infected.” 

Blue eyes raised, his brows following suit as he looked past the bit of paper in her hand and locked gazes with Dr. Garcia. “I was under the impression we’re all infected, Doctor.” 

“We are,” she dropped her arm, shook her head, “Every other person on this base is infected with this pathogen. I don’t understand why this person isn’t and I can’t explain it without more tests.” A sigh escaped her and her gaze flicked back to his before she added, “I _need_ to run more tests.” 

“Run them.” 

“Easier said,” her mouth quirked, the smile self-deprecating, “I’m going to need to give them reasons for the tests. I’d like those reasons to be the truth.” 

It was Boyd’s turn to sigh, her smile suddenly making perfect sense. “We agreed discretion was the best choice—” 

“I know!” Her smile slipped and a bit of her spine peeked through as she leveled a glare at him, “I know that! I also know that I’ll need some form of explanation for the tests for the subject’s father. She’s sixteen! And some of these tests will be incredibly invasive.” 

“Dammit,” he muttered and with great feeling before taking the chair at his desk.

Dr. Garcia followed his lead, claiming the chair across from him as she agreed wholeheartedly with his sentiment by grousing, “Yeah.” 

“Just the father and daughter?”

“Just them,” Dr. Garcia agreed. 

His frowned down at the papers scattered across his desk and then looked back up at her before he questioned, “Could this lead to a cure?” 

A shrug lifted her thin shoulders before she offered, “It could, but I make can’t make any promises. I _can_ say that it’d be a step in the right direction.” 

The lack of placations separated her further from her predecessor and Boyd gave her one sharp dip of his chin before stating, “Do it and thank you, Doctor.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.”

* * *

The end.


	10. early morning summons

Title: early morning summons   
Word Count: 1900  
Prompt: #359 relationships   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: Jacob knew that meant Bradley was uncomfortable and thought, perhaps, it had most to do with Buffy’s careful study of them.

* * *

The crunch of leaves and the snapping of twigs accompanied Hank’s fall as he tumbled down a steep incline and away from the infected roaming the hillside. His weight speed up his momentum; quicker than he’d anticipated as the foliage gave way to grass and he continued his way downward in an uncontrolled free fall. His eyes closed, nausea rearing its head with the rotating view of sky and dirt until his body impacted and the spasm awoke him. 

His brows tugged downward as Hank blinked up at the swollen moon above him and the sensation of falling slipped away leaving behind a tingling sensation in his extremities. He lifted a hand to wipe at the perspiration lining his forehead as he sat up; body incredibly tired for reasons that were beyond him as he dropped his booted feet to the grass and looked across the small opening between his cot and Grayson’s. The younger man was still asleep, undisturbed by the pounding in Hank’s chest or sounds he made as he forced him onto unsteady feet.

Hank made his way quickly to the tent in search of the girls and found Emma, fast asleep on Buffy’s cot, but no signs of his daughter and his heart reenacted the dream before he spun and looked to the SUV. The full moon allowed him to locate his daughter easily enough. She was watching him from the hood of the vehicle and he exhaled, eyes falling close a moment as he thanked whatever deity was still listening, before heading towards her. He allowed himself a few calming breaths as he forced himself to slow his steps, suddenly noticing how unbearably hot it was now that the rain had come and gone and the humidity wouldn’t allow them another break until the next summer shower. 

His daughter’s head inclined and her eyes looked brown in the low light of the moon, but she smiled a welcome at him and patted the empty hood space beside her. He climbed up, mindless of the paintjob, and settled himself, legs stretching out in front of him. He watched as she dug a fork into the last can of tuna fish, which explained why she was awake so early in the morning, and offered him the fork. 

He accepted it—regardless of the time or preference one did not refuse offerings of food these days—and chewed on the warm bit of fish-flavored meat. Hank found himself suddenly missing the few rabbits his daughter had managed to hunt up while they were on their own. He’d learned through trial and error how to skin and butcher them. It’d been the least he could do after Buffy had managed to hunt them—hunt, not kill, he’d tried to voice the difference often for his daughter’s sake. The first one had been the hardest for the both of them but after the initial tears, Buffy’s not his own, they’d eventually stumbled into a routine of sorts.

Warm meat, that was supposed to be warm, was leaps and bounds better than the canned meat they shared on occasion. He handed the fork back to his daughter and watched her spear herself another bite and they shared the remainder of the can and the rest of the night in silence and each other’s company. 

He didn’t speak of his dreams, his nightmares and Buffy didn’t ask. 

They simply enjoyed the quiet and each another’s company.

* * *

Grass crunched beneath the wheels of the golf cart, yesterday’s rain had brought some green to the previously brown field that Jacob found himself driving upon. Bradley sat shotgun, humming along to a song only he could hear in his head with his Remington on his lap and his gaze trained on the fence line they were passing in the early morning hours. Col. Boyd had put out a request for two of the newest members of the Blount to be brought to Dr. Garcia—again—and Bradley had volunteered them for the task before their shift at the front gate. 

Jacob wasn’t complaining, though he found the need for the Summers family presence at the CDC building suspect, but he’d learned not to ask too many questions. Especially this early in the morning and since Bradley seemed completely at ease with the request Jacob followed the soldier’s lead, per usual, and drove them towards the section of the compound reserved for those unwilling to fully acclimate to the military lifestyle. 

Brown eyes swept down the rows of vehicles, on the lookout for an ambulance since Col. Boyd had stated the group had remained together for the most part. Only one of them, who had previous military experience, had joined the compound and she’d volunteered for patrol. Sarah seemed nice enough, but she said the oddest damn things during their morning classes and Jacob had noticed her lack of tact tended to annoy the others more often than not. 

His foot left the gas when he heard a dog bark and Bradley’s hum tampered off as he leaned forward. Both of them searched the surrounding area for the animal. Bradley leaned forward as he looked under cars before straightening and his gaze trained on the field beyond the fence. A frown, tugged Jacob’s brows low at the thought of the poor thing being so close to safety and yet so far away from it. They waited another moment, but the morning remained quiet and relatively still which forced them onward and further away from the main section of the compound. 

This group had quite a ways to walk if and when they needed water and Jacob couldn’t fathom why they wouldn’t just join Blount and accept the security it could offer. He shook his head and moved his right foot from gas to brake as he caught sight of the ambulance. An SUV was parked about ten feet away and he noticed there was tent set up between the two vehicles as he brought the golf cart to a complete stop. Bradley was already up and out of the cart before he’d even turned the power off. 

With another shake of his head he did just that and pocketed the keys as he followed the older man towards the small camp. He saw Mr. Summers first, the polaroid the CDC took of each survivor coming in handy since Jacob really only remembered Buffy from his encounter with the group two days ago, and Mr. Summers was talking with the younger guy who had a little girl. 

Jacob glanced around the camp, searching for Buffy and the little girl and frowned when he didn’t see either, but before he offer a greeting Bradley beat him to it and with a fake Irish accent, that just sounded at odds with his actual accent, he called out, “Top of the mornin’ to ya!”

Both men turned in unison, identical looks of confusion on their faces, and Jacob shook his head before offering them a halfhearted wave and an embarrassed, “Good morning.” 

“Hello,” Mr. Summers replied before stepping away from the younger guy—whose name escaped Jacob—and headed in their direction and after a moment’s hesitation the other guy followed him. Mr. Summer’s head inclined as he inquired, “Did the CDC mix up the tests again?” 

Bradley shook his head and replied, “I don’t believe so, but if it’s not too much trouble we’d like you and your daughter to come with us.” 

His brows tugged together and Mr. Summers’ chin dipped as he frowned at them. “There a reason why?” 

“None that we are privy to,” Bradley explained. 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” 

The younger guy inquired, and Jacob kind of agreed with, but Bradley shook his head. “Not my place to know.” 

“You’re not even curious?” 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bradley smiled with his quick retort and then offered, “If it was bad they’d send someone else to collect you. As it stands I think Dr. Garcia just wants to have a little talk.” He looked to Mr. Summers and Jacob shifted uncomfortably beside him as he offered again, “If that’s not too much trouble.” 

Mr. Summers searched Bradley’s face, blue eyes narrowing in concentration before he dropped his head into a slow nod. “I don’t see why it would be.” He turned, voice rising as he called out, “Buffy! Come’re please!”

The teenager appeared in the tent’s entrance and she crouched down to escape the low opening. Jacob watched the little girl follow her through only to hesitate when she caught sight of him and Bradley. Her chin ducked low and she hurried to catch up to Buffy and quickly grasped her hand, using it as a shield to hide her face. Buffy sent her an amused look before making her way forward at a slower pace to accommodate child’s smaller steps. 

She spared them a confused glance before looking to her dad and inquiring, “What’s the what?” 

“Dr. Garcia would like to meet with us.” 

Her brows rose and she looked back to Bradley, brow quirking as her gaze traveled over him and then she looked to Jacob. He found the weight of her gaze, the calculated look in her eyes unsettling as if she was measuring his worth the same way Col. Boyd did. 

“There a why to this request?” 

Her question brought Jacob back to the conversation, but it was Mr. Summers that replied, “Not yet.” 

A brow quirked and her head inclined as she looked to her father and he gave her the smallest of nods. A shrug lifted the shoulder of the arm not currently attached to the little girl before she turned looked back to them and state, “Sure. Why not?” 

Bradley cleared his throat and Jacob knew that meant he was uncomfortable, but whether it was from their silent exchange or Buffy’s measuring gaze he didn’t know, but he spared the blonde an encouraging smile as he greeted, “Good morning, Buffy.” 

Mr. Summer’s frowned, the young guy rolled his eyes and Buffy’s mouth turned in at the corners. “Good morning, Lance Corporal Bradley J. Michaels,” her gaze flicked to Jacob and he might of imagined it but her smile seemed to widen just a little before she added, “Good morning, Jacob.” 

He hesitated, sparing a glance at Mr. Summers’ thin mouth before he offered, “Morning, Buffy.”

“Have fun,” the younger guy offered as he moved forward to pick up his little girl. 

“Thanks, Grayson,” Jacob did his best to place the name to memory and not frown at the even wider smile she spared for the guy in front of her as he picked up the child. She caught the little girl’s knee and gave it a gentle shake as she ordered, “Be good, Emma.” 

“I _will_ be good,” the little girl assured her with more conviction than was necessary and that brought a smile to nearly everyone's face. 

Jacob sighed when that small moment broke the tension and Bradley led them away from their camp and towards the golf cart with Jacob bringing up the rear which allowed him to hear the whispered exchange between the father and daughter.

Mr. Summers inquired, “Think she’ll actually be good?” 

“Define good?”

“So not a chance in hell.” 

“Basically.”

Jacob shook his head and ducked his chin to hide his grin of amusement as he snorted into his chest.

* * *

The end.


	11. conflict and threat assessments

Title: conflict and threat assessments   
Word Count: 926  
Prompt: #372 driving in the dark   
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.  
Note: The prompt was interpreted by a passing knowledge of ‘Driving in the Dark: Ten Propositions and Predictions and National Security.’ 

Series Synopsis: Hank Summers is dealing with a dateable teenager daughter and the added stress of a zombie apocalypse. Hopefully he survives. Both.

* * *

Rain from the previous day made the morning around them a bearable temperature as the golf cart cut a path through the grass. The steady progress from their camp to the main compound of the base had Hank Summers giving an envious sigh. He’d made this trek on foot the previous day and it’d taken far longer. The rows of cars were still quiet due to the early hour, but he could hear some pots being placed on the gas-powered stoves and campfires being rekindled. 

His daughter sat beside him. She had taken the seat on the passenger’s side of the cart, directly behind the Lance Corporal and on the side closest to the fencing. Buffy was slipping back into her threat assessment mindset—one that was both familiar and troubling to Hank—as her narrowed gaze remained trained on the field just beyond the fence. She’d been quiet since the cart had pulled away from their camp and he knew it had nothing to do with the base personal currently with them. 

She trusted them, at least marginally, since all her focus was directed outside the cart, but she’d also ignored all of their attempts to include her in conversation. Under normal circumstances this would have thrilled Hank to no end, but his daughter liked to flirt, well, she’d liked to flirt before being forced to predict threats and formulate a strategic plan of escape at a moment’s notice. 

Stress, Slayerdom (her word, not his) and the world taking a tumble, had put a damper on Buffy’s social life and while he did question her taste in men—Tyler had been a world class jackass and that punk Pike hadn’t been much better—he didn’t want his daughter to miss out on the few opportunities she still had. 

He also didn’t want her dating. Period. 

Hank was going to assume most fathers felt this way about their little girls, but conflicted or not he wanted her to at least be present in her life. Another sigh escaped him, but he forced up the arm closest to Buffy and slipped it along the back of their seats. He left it there a moment before his right hand caught a shoulder and Hank tugged her across the bench seat, settling her against his side. 

Her gaze broke from searching the nearby field for threats to look up at him in confusion and he smiled down at her. After a moment’s hesitation she returned his smile, granted with far less enthusiasm, but Hank wasn’t going to let that deter him as he addressed the boy closest to his daughter’s age with the casual question, “Jacob, did you know Buffy here was quite the ice skater when she was younger?”

The cart slowed and Jacob turned to offer him a smile that widened when it landed on his daughter. “I did not, Mr. Summers.” 

Hank quelled his instant dislike of that smile to refocus on embarrassing his kid in the hopes that the old Buffy would, at the very least, make a reappearance. “She did _and_ she got the Dorothy Hamill haircut to show her dedication.” He caught Buffy’s mouth opening in surprise and he quickly added, “Her mother has the photographic evidence to prove it.” 

“Dad!” He smiled at her hiss. 

“Who’s Dorothy Hamill?” 

Jacob’s questioned stiffened his daughter’s spine as she sat up straighter. Her tone was defensive when she explained, “She’s a figure skater. She—”

“Won gold in the Olympics.” The Lance Corporal interrupted Buffy and turned around in his seat. He directed his gaze at Hank with a smile that told him the younger man had caught onto his game before looking at his daughter. “I think you looked lovely with short hair.” 

Hank felt her tense before she laughed and shook her head. “I looked like a geek.” 

“A cute geek.” Jacob cleared his throat after that counter-argument and Hank resisted the urge to glare at his ducked head. 

“She was,” Hank squeezed Buffy’s a shoulder before clarifying, “Cute and a geek.” 

“Dad!” Her outburst was less annoyed this time before she snapped, “You’re not supposed to tell your kid they’re a geek.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No, but I do hear geeks are in now.” Buffy turned her smile on the Lance Corporal. “They are in, right?”

“If you’re one of them, I’m certain they are.” Hank did frown at that comment and the guy offered him an easy smile before turning around in his seat and requesting, “So, Miss Summers, tell us a bit more about yourself.”

Hank shook his head before looking back to his daughter and felt himself relax at the smile on her face as she offered, almost shyly, “Well, I’m originally from Los Angeles.” 

“Know any stars?” 

“Just the ones on the sidewalk.” 

“Pity.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“I thought I was the one asking.” 

Hank’s smile slipped as the casual conversation turned flirty, but he stopped himself from interrupting it as his daughter laughed and seemed to enjoy herself. It’d been too long since she’d shared a conversation with a stranger that didn’t involve threats. Slayer or not, as far as Hank was concerned she was still a teenager, and was entitled to act like one from time to time. He settled himself back in the seat, but kept his arm around her shoulders. 

She might be a teenager and he’d suffer through some flirting, but he wasn’t about to let them forget Buffy was his first and theirs, hopefully, never. 

He sighed again. Conflicted sounded just about right.

* * *

The end.


	12. note sarcasm

Title: note sarcasm  
Word Count: 550  
Prompt: #376 bleak @ tamingthemuse Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Series Synopsis: Hank Summers is dealing with a dateable teenager daughter and the added stress of a zombie apocalypse. Hopefully he survives. Both.

* * *

They sat in silence and at some point, Hank wasn’t entirely certain when, he’d propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands. He was crouched in the chair, curled in tight and breath coming in shallow pants from his mouth. The knowledge that Dr. Garcia had just laid out before them had left him floundering and, to put it simply, unable to process. Computers hummed behind him and he could hear the buzzing of the cicadas in the distance as he attempted, and failed, to lift his head and engage the doctor in conversation—or perhaps more likely to demand an explanation. 

His daughter sat beside him and her presence was what forced Hank to lift his head. She lent him her quiet strength through osmosis as he studied the frown pinching her brow as she stared up at the doctor. Buffy seemed to sense his gaze and turned to him. The frown smoothed and she offered him a tired smile before asking him, “Does this really change anything?” 

Hank found himself sputtering, “How couldn’t it?” 

A brow arched and Hank noted absently that his daughter had managed to obtain tweezers since they’d arrived at the compound before she refocused him by stating, “What have we been doing these last few months?” She didn’t wait for a reply, “Doing our best not to die. How is knowing everyone’s infected going to stop that? Isn’t that just more incentive to stay among the living?” She frowned and clarified, “Not that we needed more incentive.” 

Hank’s mouth quirked and some of the tension left his chest. Her hasty logic made sense and the familiar cadence of her speech helped settle him as Buffy added, “Sure it’s going to make things harder, but you know me,” her smile turned beaming, “I thrive in the difficult.” 

Hank reached out, took his daughter’s hand in his own and agreed with her, “We’ll survive this.” 

“We do and we will.” Buffy replied with a resolute nod and a squeeze of her hand. 

Hank didn’t bother to mentioning the ever tightening of her grip. His daughter was doing her own best to ease his fears and he’d be damned if he allowed his discomfort to weaken her resolve. Instead he squeezed back before turning to Dr. Garcia. A smile curved the line of her mouth as she watched them, but when their gazes met that smile slipped. 

She studied his face and then his daughter’s before clarifying, “Not everyone is infected.”

His frown was back as Hank questioned, “Meaning?”

Buffy’s hand tightened around his own and Hank couldn’t help his wince that time. It went unnoticed by his daughter as she remained focused on Dr. Garcia. Hank followed her lead and turned to watch as the she rose from her place behind the desk and made her way around it. She settled herself across from them, leaning on the edge of the desk before explaining, “Miss Summers’ blood work shows no sign of the protein marker we’ve come to identify the pathogen by.” 

Hank resisted the urge to rush her, but Buffy felt no qualms as she questioned, “Huh? With a side of what?” 

Dr. Garcia turned her gaze to focus solely on Buffy as she clarified, “You aren’t infected.” 

“Yay me?”

* * *

The end.


	13. the difficulty of the living

Series Title: We Find Ourselves  
Title: the difficulty of the living  
Prompt: #444 – money lies  
Rating: FR15  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Series Synopsis: Hank Summers is dealing with a dateable teenager daughter and the added stress of a zombie apocalypse. Hopefully he survives. Both.

* * *

Sweat gathered along his brow, stung his eyes as Grayson worked the screwdriver beneath a loose panel. The temperature had risen in recent days and the humidity was thick enough to choke. Combine that with the lack of circulation in the back of the ambulance and Grayson knew he only had a few minutes before he’d sweat through his shirt. 

The heat was acting like an adhesive and sticking his clothing to him in the most uncomfortable of ways. He swore under his breath before wedging the flathead deeper. A silent prayer—along with another string of colorful phrases—was presented to the Almighty and Grayson shoved with the hope that the linoleum didn’t tear. He felt a pop and with a twist of the screwdriver the panel gave with a wet noise that wrinkled his brow. 

Grayson dropped the screwdriver next to his boot before he looked inside the cabinet. His next exhale was a sigh of relief when he saw the panel was still intact and he wiggled it free to be propped along the side of the door before returning to the small hole in the ambulance floor. It was a pocket of space that was about two feet long, one foot wide and only a couple inches deep. It wasn’t much, but Grayson appreciated any space that was away from prying eyes.

A photo album he’d saved from Rebecca’s car, mostly for Emma, was removed from the compartment and placed alongside the panel. He could see another shotgun and several boxes of ammunition tucked in tight beside it, but he was more interested in the prescription bottles. The supply ran from painkillers to antibiotics and Grayson had lied about them when pressed by Blount officials. 

There wasn’t enough to make a difference to a camp as large as this one, but they could mean life or death to the few people left that Grayson gave a damn about. So he’d lied and allowed them to search his ambulance with the knowledge that none of them had ever worked as a paramedic and wouldn’t know about that pocket of underutilized space. They’d come up empty handed and Grayson had kept his emergency reserve. 

He pulled out the prescription bottle that was tucked in the corner. Compressing the top, he unscrewed it to reveal the rolled up wad of bills his brother-in-law had insisted they hold onto. Grayson figured by this point money was an overvalued commodity, but he’d started the process when they’d first gathered together outside of Sarasota and found himself compelled to continue. He added his winnings from the previous night’s card game—not that it was much—and then returned the cash to the bottle. It settled over Rebecca and Peter’s wedding rings and, while Grayson figured the gold and diamonds might be worth more than the cash, they were for Emma. Just like the album. 

The bottle was returned to the rest and Grayson laid the photo album over top before easing the panel back into the place. He struck it a few times with the side of his fist before giving it a slight wiggle. It shifted, but remained mostly in place so he returned the contents to the cabinet before closing it. Sweat gathered along his spine and his shirt stuck to it as he made his way to the doors. The screwdriver was dropped into the pen holder Velcro-ed to the end of the countertop before he opened the back. 

Sunlight greeted him on the outside, blinding in its intensity, and Grayson blinked a few times as he struggled to retrieve his sunglasses from his pocket. They settled into place with only one of his eyes open as he dropped himself to the dirt. He closed up the back and made his way around to the camp he shared with Hank and Buffy—the two people outside of Emma who were most important. 

He found his niece balanced on Buffy’s hip and he smiled at the fact that it seemed like that teenager could hold her up for hours. Emma didn’t weigh much, but she was solid and squirmy. Grayson had a hard time keeping her on his hip and still for more than fifteen minutes, but Buffy took to it like a natural and she always kept her on the hip furthest from her gun. It was a subtle thing and Emma had been taught gun safety by Peter—which had mostly entailed how they were _not_ toys—but it meant more to him than she’d ever know. 

As Grayson drew closer he realized they were talking with Sarah and his brows rose at the sight of her. She’d been pretty MIA since they’d made it to Blount and other than her grabbing a bite with him and Emma one afternoon he hadn’t seen her much. Not since he’d told her he didn’t intend to stay if the Summers clan didn’t and he hadn’t known his intentions until she’d attempted to press him into joining Blount. 

“ _We are not Don Quixote!_ ” The intensity of Buffy’s assertion made Grayson hurry his stride.

“I didn’t say you were.” Sarah frowned at the lot of them, “But I don’t want you wasting your lives on a pipe dream.” 

“That pipe dream is my mother.” 

Grayson sighed and quickly deduced Sarah’s intentions as Buffy turned to him and handed over a resisting Emma. His niece settled on his hip, but looked mournfully at Buffy while doing so and Grayson frowned a little at her antics. 

“Buffy—”

“Don’t,” the teenager interrupted her father with a frown, “We’re going to Sunnydale. We promised Mom and Giles we’d at least try.” 

“Except Sunnydale isn’t there anymore.” Grayson stiffened and turned his attention back to Sarah who was looking at Hank. “Have you gotten ahold of them at any point in the last month?” His mouth thinned and Grayson guessed the answer was no and Sarah pushed onward. “Exactly! Sunnydale was bombed. Along with a town in Indiana. I think it was called Cleveland.” She shook her head, “Anyways. They’re craters now.” 

“What?” Grayson snapped and quickly added, “Why?” 

Sarah shrugged, “I don’t know the why, but it was ordered by people higher up than General Boyd.” She hooked a thumb back towards the main structures of the camp. “There’s a Dr. Walsh in the women’s barracks that was stationed at a base they were setting up near the town. They were evacuated and then the site was bombed.” She looked back and forth between Hank and Buffy before finishing, “I doubt there were many survivors. If any.” 

Hank’s eyes fell closed, nostrils flaring has he inhaled deep before opening his eyes to look to his daughter. “It doesn’t matter. We said we’d try. We’ll try.” 

“Dad,” Buffy’s voice shook. “No.” Her left hand rose to pinch at the bridge of her nose and Grayson frowned at the vet wrap across the bend of her elbow. She’d given blood again this week, but Buffy distracted his train of thought by taking a step back from them. All of them. “I can’t.” 

The hand dropped and Grayson saw tears gathered in her eyes. He took a step towards her and she backpedaled further. “I-I just can’t.” Her face crumbled and she looked to Hank, “I’m sorry.” 

She spun, boot heels kicking up dirt as she ran from them and towards the parameter fence. Hank called after her and slipped between Grayson and Sarah to follow. They shared a look before Grayson tightened his hold on Emma and jogged after Hank. He made his way around the SUV and Grayson’s brows rose at the fact that Buffy was already halfway up the eighteen foot fence. She was over the top and climbing down the other side by the time Grayson had reached it.

“Buffy, stop!” Hank grabbed for her through the fence and she pushed herself off, landing in a crouch a few feet away. “Get back in here. Please, come on, kid, we need you here. _I_ need you.” 

“Buffany!” Emma’s plaintive cry cut Hank off. 

The teenager stepped forward and put her hand over her dad’s. She gave him a timid smile and a resolute dip of her chin, “Dad, you have to understand. I’ll be back. You know I’ll be back.” Her watering gaze lifted to Emma, “I promise. Pinky swear.” 

She kissed the aforementioned digit and pointed it at Emma, who returned the gesture. His niece sniffled, but dropped her chin in the same manner as Buffy. “Okay.” 

“Mom’s gone.” Her voice cracked and Hank caught the hand holding his. “Mom’s dead. I need to work through that.” 

“You can do that here.” 

She shook her head at Hank’s urgings. “I need to kill them. I’m going to kill them.” 

“Are you insane?” Sarah reached them, slightly out of breath, “Get your ass back in here.” 

“Fuck off,” Buffy snapped.

“Buffy,” Hank admonished some of the tension leaving his shoulders, “You can do better.”

They shared a look and Grayson assumed the last statement wasn’t a reprimand as Buffy’s face crumpled before she promised, “Three days.” 

She blew Emma kiss before disappearing into the tall grass. Sarah screeched to life behind him and Grayson watched Hank’s shoulders tighten, but his gaze never left the field his daughter wandered into. After a moment he finally spoke, “Sarah,” it cut through her tirade and he continued, “I believe my daughter told you to fuck off. Perhaps you should do so.” 

Emma came to life in his arms and parroted the phrase, “Fuck off! Fuck off! ” until Sarah turned heel and walked away. 

“She’s going to tell security.” 

“I know,” Hank sighed. “Buffy will be gone by the time they get a team together.”

“She’ll be back,” Grayson reassured him, ignoring his own uncertainty.

“She will.” 

“Fuck off!”

* * *

The end.


	14. she is the wilderness

Title: she is the wilderness  
Prompt: #453 ooze @ tamingthemuse Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Walking Dead and all related characters are copyright of Robert Kirkman, Image Comics and AMC. No infringement intended.

Series Synopsis: Hank Summers is dealing with a dateable teenager daughter and the added stress of a zombie apocalypse. Hopefully he survives. Both.

* * *

Sheets snapping in the wind drew Buffy through the tall grass and towards a two story home. It sat picturesque beneath a blue sky dotted with clouds, but the sheets on the line had yellowed in the sun. Green eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare as Buffy scanned the yard and each window before making her way closer. The crowbar, still tacky with the blood from the deadites she’d encountered on her way through the field, was held at waste level and the curved end was turned out in preparation to bludgeon.

Wooden panels covered the home from grass to tin roof and the green shutters gave it a Norman Rockwell vibe, but the brown splatters across those aging sheets implied a different tale. The sun beat unmercifully at the crown of her head and shoulders as Buffy made her way through the tall grass, which was shorter near the home, and around the clothes line. The screen door hung crooked and Buffy slowed as she drew closer, pausing to look in the windows closest to her. 

The interior was dark and looked undisturbed, but all she could see was the kitchen and that didn’t tell her a damn thing about the rest of the house. The crowbar was brought against the backdoor—twice—before she went back to the window and watched for shadows while she listened. The downstairs remained quiet, but the eerily familiar sound of fists beating glass drew her attention upward.

Buffy stepped back, gaze settling on the window above her and saw three deadites smearing blood across the glass. Her mouth curved inward as she returned to the door and gave the knob an experimental turn. It opened and she pushed until it was pressed to tight against the wall while she raised her crowbar. A gust of wind brought the sheets to life behind her and Buffy used their noise to cover her steps into the kitchen. 

There was a putrid stench to the air and the linoleum floor was streaked with dried blood. It was days old, but it looked as if someone had put up some semblance of a fight. Buffy searched the kitchen for signs of deadites or things she could pilfer. She took in the lace curtains and family photos on the fridge with a frown before zeroing on the cans that lined the countertop. Buffy read a few of the labels before she followed the blood into the dining room. 

A window dominated one of the walls and it gave an uninterrupted view of the oak tree in the front yard. The wind had brought the tire swing to spinning life, swaying the tall grass and the view was likely something the family that lived here enjoyed. It made her frown deepen since the blood meant they were probably dead—ish— she corrected the thought as the bench closest to Buffy rattled.

She stepped back, giving the deadite—if the smell was anything to go by—a chance to show itself and the bench moved inch by painful inch out from under the table. She glanced around her as the wood scraped over the linoleum, making a godawful racket and drawing the attention of anything living, or unliving, in the home. What was left of a woman attempted to drag itself out from beneath a picnic style table and devour her. 

Buffy’s head inclined at the sight of its dark hair, cut short and blood matted, before bringing the crowbar to front and center. Its hand, covered in bite marks and missing a finger, cupped the bench and tried to pull itself within biting distance of her shin. Its mouth gaped open, a hissing groan escaped that ravaged throat, and Buffy brought the crowbar against the temple closest to her. 

The head twisted, neck snapping from the force of her swing, as the skull gave beneath the blow. Blood splattered the window, ruining the view, and Buffy nodded to herself before moving on to the next room. There was a repetitive thudding coming from upstairs, but she still searched the lower level first. Making quick work of the living room, half-bath and what appeared to be a home office before making her way upstairs. 

They creaked and groaned with every step, but she doubted the deadites heard it over all the noise they were making. The scent of rotting was thicker the higher she climbed and Buffy stopped when she was at eye level with the second floor so she could look around. A jump rope was tied to the banister at the top of the stairs and connected to the door that was continuously being walked into by several deadites if the shadows beneath it were any indication. 

There were more doors down the hall, all of them closed, and Buffy waited a moment, just listening to the thuds and guttural cries of the hungry things before she finished making her way up and onto the second floor. She studied the jump rope a moment and then the door it was attached to before she shrugged and untied it. The Glock, which sat beneath her right arm, was contemplated before the familiar adrenaline rush filled the hollow feeling in her gut and she lifted the crowbar instead. Her boot met the door, cracking the frame, and on the second kick it hung as crooked as the screen door. 

Deadites, three of them, reached through the hole she’d created and Buffy spun the crowbar so that it was business end out. The smallest one fell after one quick jab through the eye and into deeper, meatier things. Its hands had been smaller than Emma’s and Buffy pushed past the horror of it all to focus on the next one squeezing its head and shoulders through the crack in the door. 

Teeth snapped and glossed eyes focused on her—as much as they could anyways—as Buffy brought the curved end of the crowbar into the side of its head. It cracked, skull caving beneath the force of her swing, and the door groaned before crumbling beneath the added weight of a dead body. Buffy took a step back as another crawled its way over the other two and she brought the pointed end into the crown of its skull. It sagged, extremities in spasm and Buffy yanked the crowbar out with a sickening squelch. 

She made her way past what had once been three little boys and to the closed doors beyond them. The first room held a set of bunk beds and the ceiling was painted black with hundreds of glow in the dark stickers adorning it. They ranged from stars to dinosaurs and Buffy walked beneath them to the closet. It was messy and filled with more toys than clothes, but she commandeered a JanSport backpack from its contents. 

The red was as beacon like a color as any she knew, but it wasn’t like she was hiding, and with a shake of her head she dumped the contents on the floor. Buffy stepped over the books, papers and a few rocks before making her way onto the next room. Toothpaste and a few towels were taken from the bathroom before she made her way into the master bedroom. The bed had been made the morning this family’s world had gone to hell and Buffy frowned at the stencil ‘ _and they lived happily ever after…_ ’ above it. 

“Ironic or just sad?” Buffy questioned, for a moment wishing her dad—the walking thesaurus—were there to guide her vocabulary towards the correct, before she stepped back as the last deadite made itself known, stumbling from the closet. 

Buffy dodged its meaty hands and the foul smell emanating from its perforated bowls wrinkled her nose as she backed away. There was a scorch mark on its shirt and it seemed less rotted than the others though it made no matter as she brought the crowbar up and into the soft flesh beneath its chin. It slid upwards to scrap at the inside of the skull before she yanked it downward. Congealed blood expelled from the wound as it slumped to its knees and Buffy backed up as it collapsed forward. 

She stepped over the body and resumed raiding the room, collecting a few shirts from the dresser and deodorant and soap from the bathroom before checking the closet. The shotgun on the floor had her glancing back at the body before her eyes widened. Realizing the man had killed himself—probably after coming home to his dead and turned wife and children—and hadn’t know he’d come back as one himself. 

Gnawing at the inside of her lip, Buffy sighed before returning to the body. She glanced at that perfectly made bed before yanking the comforter down and knocking pillows every which way. Shaking it out and over the body only took a moment and settled something loose in her chest. “Sorry,” she told his corpse and meant it before returning to the closet. 

There was a half empty box of shells on the top shelf of the closet so Buffy gave into the nagging voice—that sounded heartbreakingly like Giles—reminding her that any weapon was a good weapon nowadays. Blinking away tears she collected the box and the shotgun before snagging a shirt from the one of the hangers. She tugged the thin material over her head and shoved her blood speckled arms through the long sleeves knowing it would work to the keep the sun off since she hadn’t located any sunscreen yet. 

Buffy made one more cursory search of each room for supplies before returning to the kitchen and the cans of food. There was bottled water in the pantry along with some reusable shopping bags and she commandeered one. Buffy split the cans and water between a shopping bag and the JanSport which allowed her some freedom should she need to flee and lose some weight quickly—dropping one bag wouldn’t mean starting over from scratch. 

If she’d thinking—instead of reacting—when she left Blount she would have grabbed some supplies on the way out. Instead she’d climbed the fence and gotten into as much trouble as she could possibly find. There was a path of deader deadites between Blount and this farm—if someone was inclined to find her they just had to follow the trail of carnage in her wake. Buffy rose and settled the straps of the backpack on her shoulders, the cans made the JanSport awkward and heavy, though not for her, and wedged the shotgun at the bottom of those straps to settle it against the small of her back. 

The cloth bag went onto her left shoulder while she tightened her grip on the crowbar with her right hand as she rose and made her way towards the open back door. The sun was sinking closer to the horizon, but Buffy paid it little mind as she stepped down into the grass and caught sight of a few deadites in the distance. 

Her head inclined and she smiled.

* * *

The end.


End file.
